


Veiled Truths

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: A Storyline: Calanthe/Eist, B Storyline: Tissaia/Yennefer, Editor!Tissaia, F/M, Journalist!Eist, Journalist!Yennefer, Modern AU, Photojournalist!Mousesack, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 176,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Nearly twenty years ago, Eist Tuirseach renounced his claim to the throne and pursued a career as a news correspondent and journalist, covering wars, floods, and famines around the globe.Now, he's been assigned a task that doesn't fit his usual story at all: a human-interest piece on Cintran Princess Pavetta, chronicling the two weeks leading up to her wedding. The deal allows him round-the-clock access to the royal family...and yet, he can't shake the feeling that the infamously press-elusive Queen has no intention of letting him see anything more than exactly what she wants him to see. Which begs the question: what exactly is she trying to hide?
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Pavetta, Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 420
Kudos: 143





	1. ::Press Release: Skelligen Prince Steps Down::

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno, guys. I just need a world where they don't die tragically.
> 
> Minor notes: While still set in the geographical space of canon, the setting is more on-par with our modern times, and the techonology and fashion is similar as well.
> 
> Also, I never have an OC that isn't physically based on an actual actor, so...I'll be sharing my internal "mental casting" along the way. As with most of my longfics, there will be sneak-peeks, resource listings, photos of mental casting, and eventually a companion playlist, all released on my tumblr (@marvellouslymadmim). If that's something you're interested in, swing on by.

**PRESS BULLETIN:: FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE::**

His Royal Highness Eist Tuirseach, Jarl of Undvik and Faroe and youngest child of the Skelligen Royal Family, will be officially renouncing his title and claim to the throne this Friday. A royal press briefing is scheduled this afternoon.

The prince made waves eight years ago, when he first joined the Royal Navy as a common enlisted man at the age of seventeen, rather than taking his honorary rank of lieutenant. As such, he saw military action during peace-keeping missions in Metinna, Ebbing, and Gemmera. He eventually achieved the rank of lieutenant-commander during his time in the Royal Navy, leading the elite Sea Hounds of Skellige unit.

At this time, there is no word on the royal family’s reaction to his decision. The Jarl is third in line for the Skelligen throne, behind his eldest brother, Crown Prince Bran, Jarl of Ard Skellig and Clan Tuirseach, and his elder sister, Princess Sibba, Jarl of An Skellig.


	2. The Lost Prince and the Closed Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental Casting: I don't know if we'll actually "see" Bran and Birna in this story, but just fyi, absolutely based on Iain Glen and Michelle Fairley, respectively.
> 
> Also, for the curious: I know there are like fifty-leven million map variations of the continent, but this story uses this one, aka the Netflix map, as its reference: https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/witcher/images/8/8c/Netflix_map.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20190223194431

**Twenty Years Later.**

**Aretuza, Thanedd Island.**

“This is a puff piece.” If Eist Tuirseach’s tone didn’t properly convey his level of disdain, then his curled lip and furrowed brow certainly did. Still, he kept his voice low, knowing full-well how easily sound carried through the glass walls of the editor’s office, despite the closed door.

“Yes, that’s what most would think,” his editor returned coolly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tissaia de Vries was younger than most of her senior writers, and Eist was no exception—granted, she’d been busting her ass as an errand girl while most of her staff had still been dreaming away at university, and she’d earned her spot atop the ladder. She’d been a field correspondent in some of the most dangerous theaters of war and had been named _The Continent’s Most Fascinating Woman_ exactly five times, though she swore that she didn’t keep count, didn’t care a whit.

That was a lie. Eist knew because sometimes, he baited her, pretending to forget the number. If he said anything less than five, her nostrils would flare ever-so-slightly and the lines around her mouth would tighten. That was her tell, always.

Eist Tuirseach was infamous for learning people’s tells. It was a gift, in a way. Growing up in a royal court, where people often told you whatever they thought you wanted to hear, it became important to be able to find the truth in the things they didn’t say, or in the _way_ they said the things they did. Later, when he renounced his title and became a fulltime war correspondent, it became even more vital. It had saved his life, more than once.

But even those days were over. He didn't write about wars anymore, instead focusing on their aftermath. Currently, he was back at Aretuza, where the highest ranked international publication, _The Continental Post_ , held their main office. He still went abroad, to write pieces on famine and floods and other current events that most journalists were too frightened to take on, but he still had to write less thrilling pieces, from time to time (bills had to be paid, after all).

This was definitely a less thrilling piece.

“Honestly, I can’t even imagine why you’d assign it to _me_ ,” he voiced the thought that had been blaring in his head ever since Tissaia had called him into her office. “A royal wedding? Surely that has Sabrina’s name all over it.”

“Your touch of sexism duly noted,” Tissaia monotoned, dipping her head slightly.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

She tamped down a slight smile, silently agreeing. Then, she resumed a more serious air, “It isn’t just any royal wedding. It’s Pavetta Fiona Elen, daughter to Queen Calanthe of Cintra. To a commoner, no less.”

“The tabloids say he’s some…low born lord or something,” Eist pointed out. He’d seen them, in line at the market—the bright red ink, the photos of an outraged Calanthe (except he knew the actual context of those photos, from an event years past, and he'd rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt to create more drama than actually existed—heaven knows, he was subjected to as much back in his own royal days).

Tissaia huffed at that. “That’s Calanthe’s doing, you can be sure. Trying to lessen the sting, I think. Regardless, it will be one of the largest events of this decade.”

Eist rolled his eyes at that. “I still don’t see—”

“You will,” Tissaia promised curtly. She leveled a long, serious look at him. Then, she quietly added, “I need your eyes in particular on this one, Tuirseach. Calanthe of Cintra is notoriously anti-press. This is the first time she’s allowed a correspondent inside the palace at Cintra since Pavetta’s birth. You are being given an all-access pass to the most powerful woman on the continent.”

“Didn’t you interview her, ages ago?” Eist suddenly remembered.

Tissaia gave a single, small nod. “Fascinating woman. Mind like a steel trap, but faster and far more cutting. She’ll tell you everything and nothing.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” Eist realized that this was about far more than just a wedding, even if it was the wedding of the decade.

“I don’t know,” Tissaia answered, and she was being honest, Eist could tell. “I just know that she’s opening the palace gates for one singular correspondent, and that she doesn’t do anything without absolute calculation. It’s a chance we can’t miss, and I need my best on it.”

He grinned at that, “Ah, Mama’s proud of me?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Please don’t ever call me mama again, Tuirseach. It makes the skin crawl.”

“Yeah, it felt a little weird, even as I said it,” he admitted easily. They both grinned again. Then, he asked, “So, how heartbroken is Glevissig gonna be, when she finds out?”

“Sabrina’s heart will mend, easily enough,” Tissaia made a slight dismissive gesture with her hands. “I’m assigning her to live on-air coverage of the actual wedding.”

Eist hummed at that. _The Continental Post_ had started out as a monthly printed publication, but over the decades it had become a media behemoth, with its own news channel. Sabrina Glevissig was TCP’s go-to for glamorous events, mainly because she had a face quite fit for camera and a good eye for personal style that made her right at home on a red carpet. But she also had a habit of wearing some…daring outfits, which often had conservative viewers leaving waves of outraged comments afterwards. He could only imagine what her royal wedding attire would be.

“Now, go pack your bags,” Tissaia waved him off. “You’re flying out, first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” He spluttered. “The wedding isn’t for another six months!”

Tissaia gave a wry grin. “You have to be officially approved beforehand. There will be a sit-down with her personal staff, to deem if you’re suitable. A litmus test, as it were.”

He'd expected a thorough background check, but an actual personality assessment? This seemed beyond the pale.

“Try to bring that charm of yours,” Tissaia suggested. “The one I've heard so much about but have never seen.”

He huffed at that. Still, he made a dramatic show, giving an obsequious bow, “As you wish, madame.”

Her face remained entirely impassive and unimpressed. But she was smiling on the inside.

He could tell.

* * *

“Who the hell did you piss off?” That was the first thing out of Mousesack's mouth, the moment Eist opened the front door of his flat. “And why the hell did you drag me into it?”

Eist rolled his eyes and stepped back, allowing Mousesack to enter. The photojournalist held up a carton of bottled beer—Lion's Head, Cintra’s finest.

“Seemed appropriate,” Mousesack shrugged. Eist couldn’t argue with the logic.

They popped the caps, gave a silent toast with quick clinks ( _va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar_ ), and both headed to Eist’s living room, which looked out to the rocky sea below.

Mousesack settled into a leather slingback chair and settled his gaze on Eist. To most people, his calm grey-blue eyes were almost unnerving. To Eist, they were a gift of the gods—because those eyes saw detail and angle that no others did, and were adept at capturing what they saw through his camera lens. While Eist didn’t doubt his own skills as a writer, he knew that on more than one occasion, people only read his work because Mousesack’s stunning photos accompanying the story made them pause.

There was no way he was writing this story without pictures. Tissaia had agreed; she’d gotten on the phone with someone on the queen’s staff and had received the go-ahead to add one more name to tomorrow’s meeting (though she’d been warned that it was highly unlikely that the photographer would be officially approved for the actual event, as Queen Calanthe generally wasn’t one for photographs). So Eist had called his old comrade and broke the news.

“A _wedding_?” Mousesack repeated, in the same incredulous tone he’d used earlier, when Eist had called.

Eist held up a finger, “All-access backstage pass to the ruler of the most powerful country on the continent, during the two weeks leading up to her daughter’s wedding.”

The older man gave a slight shrug at the clarifier. With a wistful sigh, he noted, “Still not the coast of Nazair.”

“No,” Eist agreed, with a sigh of his own. They were cut from the same cloth, always eager for adventure, for the comfort of the unknown and the foreign. They’d been friends and colleagues for nearly a decade now, meeting in a Nazairian coastal village and immediately recognizing each other as a fellow Skelliger, during an attempted Nilfgaardian coup of the local Nazairi government in a little border town. Mousesack’s photo series won the Golden Raven for Photojournalist of the Year. But it hadn’t been about the award, they both knew—it had been about capturing the truth, forcing people to see it, to _know_ it, to feel it and to do something about it.

Four countries had sent aid to Nazair, after that. Cintra had not been among them.

They’d done something good, amidst the harrowing bad they’d witnessed. Something worthy and worthwhile.

Now they were handling a wedding. Gods above.

“There’s something more to it, Tissaia thinks,” Eist announced, hoping beyond all hope that it was true. “She thinks the queen has an angle.”

“So she chose you to find it,” Mousesack nodded in sudden understanding. Still, his mouth curled into a wry smile, “And you chose me to suffer through it with you.”

“No one else I’d rather have beside me in the trenches,” Eist raised his beer.

“We’ll see how long I last,” his friend shrugged. “Tissaia called me, on my way here. Warned me not to be too hopeful. I told her that I was hoping to get the boot before I even hit the front step of the palace.”

Eist grinned at that. He had a certain tolerance for pomp and circumstance, having grown up in it—but Mousesack was a salt of the earth type, and anything that required him to wear something outside of his standard grey khaki dungarees and linen button downs was an immediate burden upon his soul.

Which reminded him: he should probably shave, before tomorrow. Look a bit more presentable. He already went for a haircut, this afternoon.

He shouldn’t put this much effort into it, he told himself. But Tissaia would want him to, and…if he were being honest, he was beginning to feel a sense of intrigue about the whole ordeal.

“Right,” Mousesack set his beer on the coffee table between them, a piece of polished and resined driftwood, straight from Skellige. He turned his attention to the battered khaki and leather bag that he carried practically everywhere, for as long as Eist had known him. He rummaged around, pulling out a small laptop encased in a clunky, hard protective shell. “Let’s see what we can see, shall we?”

That was the whole point of meeting up tonight—to do a little research into their newest assignment, so they could be as fully prepared as possible before their interview with the queen’s staff in two days.

Eist grabbed his laptop as well and they got to work.

After a few minutes of silence, Mousesack commented, “There truly are very few photos of the woman—at least compared to her peers.”

“Cintran royals have never really done publicity stunts,” Eist explained. “They’ve always done the same charity bits and such as all the others, but there’s a cultural shift in the mentality—you _do_ good deeds, you don’t _show_ them. It’s an expected part of your duties and responsibilities, so why try to garner a pat on the back over it?”

“A point in their favor,” came the reply. “Still even…tabloid photos are severely lacking. A woman this good-looking, widowed nearly ten years, and no one’s trying to find her secret lover?”

Eist clicked over to a photo in his own online search. It was the queens’ official portrait, from gods knew how long ago. She stared back, cold and lifeless, dark hooded eyes and a firm, almost frowning mouth. Long neck, ramrod straight shoulders. She wasn’t unattractive…but she wasn’t exactly what Eist would call attractive either. She just…was.

“I doubt she has a secret lover,” Eist admitted. Something about the eyes made him unable to look away.

Mousesack merely shrugged, continued clicking through photos.

Eist took another beat to look at the photograph. It had the feel of being met with a closed door. The queen was giving the camera no more than exactly what she wanted it to see.

It made him think of his own royal portrait, decades ago. The photographer had kept turning his head at various angles, kept repeating odd commands to the specific way Eist should hold his brow or his mouth. In the end, he’d understood why—the portrait made him look dashing and determined, but not too frivolous, though not too serious, either. Eist hadn’t recognized his own face.

And the people who had seen that portrait, and thought it was a true measure of him and his personality—well, they were often shocked to find a carefree, playful prince with little concern for decorum or custom or noble ways.

Maybe she did have a secret lover. Maybe she visited Sodden’s infamous sex dungeons and smoked seer’s herbs and drank too much. Maybe she was off her damn rocker and saw the ghost of her dead king every day. Maybe she was sickly, maybe she was overly pious, maybe she was secretly addicted to gambling or kept an odd horde of teapots.

“I should call my brother,” Eist suddenly realized. Mousesack looked up at that, face lined with mild inquisitiveness. “He’s met the queen a few times. For trade agreements and state dinners and such.”

“Ah,” Mousesack suddenly understood. “We’ve found our inside man.”

“If he agrees to divulge anything,” Eist held up a hand in warning. “Bran is unhelpfully noble, most of the time.”

He grabbed his cellphone and checked the time—Skellige was an hour behind Aretuza, which meant is wasn’t too terribly late there. If anything, Bran was probably still very much awake, his official day done but his duties never truly over. He’d only been crowned king two years ago, when their parents officially relinquished the throne.

“What’s wrong?” Bran answered, after the second ring.

“Nothing.” Eist felt the familiar surge of irritation than only siblings can evoke. “Why does something have to be wrong, for me to call?”

“Because you’re you,” Bran returned simply, the smile evident in his voice.

“I’m doing research for a story, and hoping you can help,” Eist cut to the chase, feeling a prick of guilt—because he still wasn’t calling just to call, and it seemed to reinforce his brother’s view of him.

He could hear Bran shift nervously at that. “I suppose it depends on the nature of your story.”

“Calanthe of Cintra. And the story is with her full knowledge and consent. I’m flying out tomorrow and then interviewing with her staff the day after. It’s a human-interest piece, for the royal wedding this summer.”

“Oh,” Bran was obviously surprised. “But…why?”

“Why not?” Eist returned drolly.

Bran didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, he took a hesitant breath—weighing his options and their possible consequences, Eist knew.

“Off the record?”

“This is all just to help me know what I’m walking into,” Eist assured him. “Zero blowback.”

Bran made a small sound that implied his agreement. “She’s…interesting. At a dinner, she’s always either the best guest, or the worst. No in-between. And that all depends on her mood, which can be…unpredictable. If she hates you, there’s very little chance for redemption. If she tolerates you, it’s still a thin line and an easy fall from what little grace you’ve been granted. If she likes you—well, you’re quite fortunate indeed. Though it may take you awhile to know she likes you at all.”

“Where do you fall on the list?” Eist was curious.

“She likes me,” Bran answered without hesitation. “Or she trusts me, at least. Which puts me slightly ahead of most people. It’s why Skellige enjoys one of the best trade agreements Cintra has to offer—if not _the_ best.”

“Any sensitive subjects to avoid?”

“I make it a habit to only speak on matters of state. It’s why she trusts me—and why she’s been less than tolerable of those who didn’t follow the same protocol.”

A public figure who hated personal questions. What a searing anomaly.

“So you can’t tell me anything about her personal life?”

“Nothing that I would feel comfortable sharing. It may be just between us, but it’s a bit of a moral thing, on my part.”

Bran the noble. They’d called him that, since they were children—Eist and his older sister Sibba. He’d never disproven the name. Eist made a note to call Birna, later in the week. Bran’s wife wasn’t nearly as pious and extremely less tight-lipped.

“I can say that she loves her daughter, very much. From what I have witnessed, she’s a good mother.”

“Great. You’ve been supremely helpful,” Eist deadpanned.

“If you were still here, you’d know all this for yourself,” Bran retorted, though not unkindly. The years had taken away the sting of it, the sense of betrayal from Eist’s actions. “You would have met her a half-dozen times by now, at least.”

“I also wouldn’t be writing a piece on her,” Eist pointed out. His brother made a small noise of acquiescence at that.

“How are you?” Bran asked quietly, sounding too much like a concerned big brother. Too much like a father, truth be told.

“Happy. Busy. Free.” Eist quoted his usual refrain.

“You could be all those things here.” Bran meant Skellige, the palace, royal life in general.

“That’s your world, not mine,” Eist reminded him.

“Just because you haven’t found your place in it, doesn’t mean that it isn’t your world, too,” Bran returned gently.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Eist let his tone end that particular vein of conversation. “Give my love to Birna and the brats, as always.”

“Of course,” Bran knew this was a sign-off. “You are in our thoughts and hearts continually, Eist.”

The call ended. Eist glanced over at Mousesack, who was studiously concentrating on his laptop screen.

“You know,” Mousesack broke the silence. “For all my complaints about the queen’s lack of photos—the princess is even more lacking. Like…to the point of being bizarrely so.”

“Well, she’s…how old?”

“Twenty.”

“So she’s only been fair game in the press for two years now.”

There had been an international agreement, decades ago, when photojournalism first became a big thing—the children of public figures were off-limits, excepting sanctioned photo ops by the parents or guardians. Most royal families released several family portraits per year for various holidays and events—but given Cintran royalty’s noticeably lower amount of publicity in general, it didn’t seem that odd that Calanthe kept her daughter out of the frame.

Still, Eist searched for Pavetta Fiona Elen as well. There were a few royal press releases—but it quickly devolved into an odd vein.

_The Princess in the Tower: Why is Pavetta Locked Away from the World?_

_Dragon Queen: What’s Calanthe Hiding?_

_Is Pavetta Even Real?_

It only got weirder. Pavetta was actually a government AI experiment, poised to control the nation while the real people in charge—the Queen’s Council—pulled the strings. Pavetta was a victim of the human slave trade, bought by the queen when she couldn’t bear her own children. Forums featuring someone who knew someone who knew the queen’s former physician, who confirmed that Calanthe was barren. Pictures of a child rumored to be King Roegner’s illegitimate love child, who looked nothing like Pavetta—or at least Pavetta’s official royal portrait, which was released on her eighteenth birthday.

That didn’t affect Eist as much as it did some. He had two siblings; they bore only a mildly passing resemblance. They all had the same eyes. He and Bran shared their father’s nose. He and Sibba had the same dark hair, compared to Bran’s sandy locks. Bran and Sibba had their mother’s smile. Other than that, their features weren’t similar at all.

Eist sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face in frustration ( _shave_ , he still needed to shave).

“You’ve reached the conspiracy theory section?” Mousesack guessed dryly.

Eist merely hummed in acknowledgement. Then, he added, “So looks like we’re flying in blind.”

“Not the first time we’ve done so,” Mousesack pointed out. “Though I dare say, these stakes are slightly less life-or-death.”

“Who knows?” Eist countered. “For all we know, the queen enjoys inviting journalists to the palace to kidnap them and hunt them for sport.”

His friend laughed at that. Then he set down his laptop and took up his beer again. Curiously, he asked, “You think they’ll have beer at the wedding?”

Eist grimaced, “I’m sorry, old man, but it will definitely be a champagne event.”

Mousesack swore. “I’m not going. I’ve walked through seven hells with you, but gods above, there’s always been beer. A man has his limits, Eist.”

“Once in a lifetime,” Eist reminded him.

Mousesack took a long, defiant swig of his beer. “Sometimes once is still one time too many.”

Eist couldn’t disagree with that.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Triss Merigold took her usual seat in front of the queen’s heavy oak desk, pulling out the stylus for her personal digital assistant device. It was slightly larger than her hand, and it held her entire world—or at least her entire world in relation to her role as lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Cintra.

It still amused her, that such archaic titles existed. She didn’t dress the queen or draw her bath or sit around embroidering pieces for the temple altar. She was a personal secretary, a confidante, and more often than not, a friend, in an odd way.

In terms of hierarchy, she wasn’t the highest-ranked lady-in-waiting, not by a long shot. But she was the one who spent her days with the queen, and a good portion of her evenings, too.

Like this evening. She settled into the plush chair, tapping away at her PDA until the door breezed open and she jumped to her feet.

“Don’t,” Calanthe’s fingers fluttered in her direction, silently ordering her back into her seat. With a beleaguered sigh, the queen unbuttoned her fitted jacket (the same blue as her pants, the shade known throughout the world as Cintran Cerulean) and toed off her crème leather pumps. The pumps stayed on the carpet, the jacket was tossed across the settee which sat in the middle of the room. As usual, Triss felt like she was witnessing a knight, removing armor after battle.

The queen continued on to her desk, taking her seat with another low sigh. “What’s the damage?”

The same question she always asked, at the end of the day.

Triss went over the highlights. A few press stories, headlines only. If Calanthe was interested, she’d ask for more detail. Most of the time she didn’t, though. She was smart and quick, even at the end of a long day; her use of context clues gave her enough information. Then Triss shifted to progress reports on whatever legislation was happening, any potential obstacles or upcoming successes—again, Calanthe didn’t ask for further clarification. It was a status update, not a full briefing. She had advisors for that.

Finally, it was time to review tomorrow’s schedule. Triss tapped her calendar, scrolling line by line, “Six o’clock start, meeting with Lord Chamberlain at nine—”

“Mother of mine, preserve us,” the queen murmured. She was not endeared to most of her advising council. And in this case, the feeling was definitely mutual. Not that Triss blamed her—Lord Stregobor always made her skin crawl.

“Luncheon with the women’s committee of the Liegeman’s Council, with a speech. The journalists arrive at approximately four o’clock—”

“Oh, fuck,” Calanthe’s voice was barely audible, but it still made Triss pause. She was used to hearing the queen curse, but the tone was a bit different.

“I forgot that was happening,” Calanthe admitted. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the ceiling, as if seeking strength.

Not that Triss believed it for a moment. The woman didn’t forget a damn thing. Maybe she was trying to play it casual, like it wasn’t a hugely monumental deal, having journalists inside the palace after decades of keeping them shut out.

“Not til the day after tomorrow, your majesty,” Triss reminded her. “Tomorrow, the driver will pick them up at the airport and escort them to their hotel.”

“Schedule a meeting with Renfri tomorrow,” Calanthe decreed. “I want to see what her research has turned up so far.”

Triss nodded, making a note. As head of the queen’s personal security, Renfri Fredesdotter was handling the background checks and interviewing the two journalists who were under consideration to cover the royal wedding. She added, “I have been in contact with Renfri, and she’s already passed along some intel—”

“When?” Calanthe sat up at that, surprise filling her low tone.

“This morning.”

“And you’re telling me _now_?”

“The information had no impact on the course of your day,” Triss returned easily. By now, she knew when the queen was winding up for a genuine fight, and when she was bluffing simply because she was bored. Currently, she wasn’t bored but she still wanted a bit of distraction from the day. “If it were something of true import, you know Renfri would have barged in here herself.”

The queen hummed at that. It was why she liked Renfri, truth be told. Despite being particularly passionate about her job, Renfri cared very little for the tact and decorum often required to keep said job. If she’d worked for any other royal or dignitary, she’d have been out on her arse ages ago.

Calanthe admired her. Often rewarded her insubordination (so long as it wasn’t directed against her, which it never had been). She liked to think that she’d have been a bit more like Renfri herself, if she didn’t have the weight of a country around her neck.

“So what did she find?” She turned her gaze back to Triss. The younger woman ducked her head, consulting her notes (it worried Calanthe, sometimes, how much the woman wrote down—it created a digital papertrail and it made her uneasy. But it also made Triss the excellent assistant that she was, so needs must).

“Miss de Vries is sending Anton J. Moussek, photojournalist, and Eist Tuirseach, journalist. Both Skelligers. No criminal history, no known issues with—”

Calanthe’s memory clicked. “Tuirseach. As in the Tuirseachs of Skellige.”

“I mean,” Triss frowned at her PDA, as if it somehow held the answer. “I don’t know for sure but—it’s not an entirely uncommon name, and surely—”

“No, no, it is,” Calanthe sat up fully again, leaning to prop her elbows on her desk. She gave a sly grin. “Tissaia de Vries is trying to sneak the lost prince into my house.”

Triss was thoroughly confused. The queen explained. “It’s…a bit before your time, perhaps.”

It was times like these that made Calanthe feel every minute of their fifteen-year age difference. She continued, “But, ye gods, it’s been…nearly twenty years now? King Bran’s youngest brother quit the monarchy. Packed up and shipped out for a life among the unwashed masses. It was quite a stir at the time.”

“What does the king think of it?” Triss wondered.

“I wouldn’t know. I would never be so gauche as to ask,” Calanthe sniffed at that, looking for all the world like an affronted cat. Then she looked at her hand, idly playing with the signet ring that sat where her wedding band had once been. “A smart move on Miss de Vries’ part, I must admit. Send in somebody who’s already highly familiar with royal protocol—he’ll be quicker to the take than most. Damn that woman.”

Her tone was tinged with begrudging admiration, Triss noted. Then again, she’d never doubted that the queen must hold a great deal of respect for the editor-in-chief of _The Continental Post_ , or else this opportunity would never happen. Calanthe didn’t suffer fools, and she rarely gave favors—though Triss Merigold knew beyond all doubt that this particular venture was something the queen needed, no matter how deeply she’d rather die than admit it.

“Have Renfri come see me, first thing tomorrow morning,” Calanthe declared, frowning slightly as she continued focusing on her ring.

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Anything else?”

“No, madame. Other than Jaskier’s agent returned my call, while you were in your evening briefing. They’ve agreed to terms.”

“Well, Pavetta will be pleased.” The queen sounded thoroughly the opposite. She sat back in her chair again, giving another sigh. “You’re free to go, Merigold. Do try not to be too hungover tomorrow morning.”

“Madame?” Triss tried to keep a straight face.

The queen’s mouth quirked into a knowing smirk. “It’s Tuesday, is it not? Karaoke night at the Tower Tavern?”

Triss ducked her head, and that was all the confirmation Calanthe needed (not that she needed any, because she _knew_ , beyond all doubt).

“You are being safe about it.” This wasn’t a question, and Triss appreciated that.

“I am,” she nodded, looking up to meet the queens’ gaze again. Not for the first time, she was surprised at how…tender the woman could look, when she was genuinely concerned. “Two drinks and I’m done. And I have my personal protection device.”

Calanthe nodded curtly at that. Part of being a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of Cintra meant rigorous rounds of self-defense training, plus a security protocol.

It was Calanthe’s turn to duck her head, fluttering her fingers in the direction of the door. “Away. Go live your debauched life off-hours.”

Triss tamped down a smile, made her formal motions of taking leave, and hurried out of the room. She slipped her PDA in her left suit jacket pocket and withdrew her personal cellphone from her right. She tapped out a quick text to her friends, confirming that she would be there tonight.

None of them knew her day job. They knew she worked as a personal assistant to some high-up public figure, and that she’d signed a slew of non-disclosure agreements which meant she couldn’t discuss it. Triss kind of liked it. The sense of having a double life.

It was fun, for now. She knew it wouldn’t be always. She’d heard the stories, from the other ladies who’d been here longer, like Visindra, who’d been with Calanthe since her coronation at age twenty-one.

Twenty-four years. Triss couldn’t imagine being here that long. She could leave whenever she pleased, she knew, though she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else—even as she couldn’t fathom staying forever. It was a strange juxtaposition.

She wouldn’t be the queen’s lady all her life, she knew. Calanthe would meet the same end as all do, eventually. With a slight sign of the protective rune, Triss silently prayed that would be many, many years into the future.

* * *

Calanthe sat back again, taking a beat to stare blankly across her empty office, processing the last bits of her day.

The lost prince. The thought made her smirk. She’d been worried at the idea of finally letting the press into the palace—but this wasn’t for her, it was entirely for Pavetta’s benefit, and like all necessary evils, it was still necessary. Now, it held a certain air of…intrigue.

Idly, she wondered what Tissaia de Vries’ angle was. She had one, those types always did. Calanthe just needed to figure it out, so that she could prepare a counter-offensive.

With a sudden sense of determination, she shifted in her seat, opening a drawer of her desk to pull out a sleek laptop. A few seconds later, she was searching for Eist Tuirseach on the internet.

She made a small noise of surprise when she saw his photo—the one used for official bylines on _The Continental Post_ website. A little scruffy, but in a deliciously brooding kind of way.

_Wouldn’t mind having that around_ , she decided. Though she’d prefer if he were more of a thing to pull out of the closet when she got bored—no opinions, and certainly no ability to write and publish those opinions for the world to read.

Still, not bad to look at. Calanthe Riannon had always enjoyed pleasing sights (didn’t everyone?), and she could be impartial enough to admit this one certainly was such.

He still looked like trouble. Too deep, too searching, too intense. Probably an over-developed sense of self-importance, a gift of his royal childhood.

Maybe that was his weak point. She’d just play to his vanity (he obviously had some—you couldn’t look like _that_ and not know it, you _had_ to be a bit vain), soothe his ego and he’d be easily placated, led by the nose to whatever Calanthe wanted him to find.

This wasn’t her first time, dealing with men and their big egos. She gave a wry grin as she looked at the photograph again.

This was going to be fun, she decided. It was a necessary evil, but who said it necessarily had to be dull?

She snapped the laptop closed and stowed it away before rising to her feet. Her heels were back on and her suit jacket firmly buttoned before she swung open the door to her office, giving a slight nod to her two personal guard for the evening, who followed her through the dimly lit halls, back to the queen’s private quarters.

She felt the smile still dancing at the corners of her mouth. There was always such an absolute sense of satisfaction, knowing she was approaching a situation over which she would have absolute and unwavering control.

This was going to be fun—simply because she’d decided it would be, and she was nothing if not a monument to the idea of mind over matter.


	3. Towards, Not Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this universe, seer's herbs=legit just cannabis. Just fyi.

**Aretuza, Thanedd Island.**

Tissaia de Vries lightly bit the pad of her thumb as she squinted at the screen of her computer. She’d gone to bed hours ago, but as usual, her restless legs woke her up—so here she was, smoking some seer’s herbs and scrolling through news sites, indiscriminately devouring all the information she could find.

It was by absolute accident that she ended up here. Completely unplanned, completely oblivious, completely innocent. (She almost believed herself.)

She scanned the lists of posts on the Truth Seeker website. Clicked on one whose inflammatory headline caught her attention.

She forced herself to read the whole thing. Absolutely calm, absolutely peacefully paced.

Still, there was an almost urgent sense of frenetic energy when she finished and scrolled further down, to the little blurb and picture of the author.

_Yennefer Vengerberg is an independent reporter for Truth Seeker International. She attended Aretuza’s Rectory, where she earned degrees in Journalism and Political Science. She lives in Aedirn._

No mention of her time at _The Continental Post_. Not that Tissaia expected it. It was…an unnoteworthy stop in her career. But it wasn’t about that, either, Tissaia knew—it was an intentional snub, directed solely at Tissaia.

_Stop being ridiculous_ , she chided herself. _Yennefer couldn’t possibly know that you’d ever read anything she wrote, ever again._

Except she knew Yennefer. Knew that Yennefer knew her. The younger woman knew Tissaia would come looking, eventually. And knowing Yennefer, she’d stubbornly keep the same bio for years, just on the off-chance that Tissaia would find it, sooner or later.

Most journalists would give their right hand for a chance to say they worked at TCP. It was famed for its high-caliber content, for the elite skill of their staff. To be a part of it—even for the briefest amount of time—signified that you had something special to offer the world of journalism and media.

But Yennefer Vengerberg pushed away that chance at prestige, like a child being offered brussels sprouts at dinner (and honestly, Tissaia could see the _exact_ expression she’d make, in such a situation). As usual, she was infuriatingly principled, even if her principles only made sense to herself.

Except they made sense to Tissaia, too. But Tissaia couldn’t allow principle to reign, not even in a place dedicated to truth and unbiased reporting. There were rules, even if Yennefer refused to follow them.

She clicked on Yennefer’s name, which led to a collection of all the articles she’d written for Truth Seeker. She had another half-hour before the herbs would render her sleepy enough to return to bed, her nervous system placated enough to keep her legs from screaming in agony. Might as well pass the time.

The soft padding of bare feet on hardwood floors made her quickly tap a few keys, exiting the website and pulling up her email.

“Coming back to bed soon?” Vanielle’s voice was still groggy with sleep, her Bruggian accent thicker than usual and her hair adorably mussed.

“Just a few more emails to send,” Tissaia promised. She offered a small smile. Vanielle was an art director in all things—even now, in a raggedy t-shirt and boy shorts, she still somehow looked perfectly coordinated and put-together. Even her hair’s less-than-coiffed state seemed like an artistic choice.

Vanielle hummed, eyes still half closed as she shuffled closer, leaning in to kiss the side of Tissaia’s head. “The office closed hours ago, chief.”

Tissaia didn’t bother to retort. They’d had this discussion on repeat for months now. Nothing ever changed. Instead, she said, “Eist has the interview with the Cintran security team in the morning. I just have a few last-minute notes to send.”

Now Vanielle made a small noise of understanding. Wryly, she pronounced, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to prepare for the worst on that one. The phrase _bull in a china shop_ comes to mind.”

Tissaia chuckled softly at that, genuinely turning her focus to actually composing an email to Eist—she really did have a few last-minute things to send. Vanielle’s prediction wasn’t unfounded. The man was built for high-octane settings, for the kinds of situations that broke most people. But in the mundane moments of life…he was not the best equipped. With formal events, even less so. Though she suspected that sometimes, he exaggerated his social ineptitude, just to ensure that he wasn’t asked to attend any more functions in the future.

Not that she blamed him entirely. He’d had more of his fill, during his time as a royal.

It was always going to be a gamble, whomever she sent to Queen Calanthe. Either the woman would outright refuse Eist due to his royal connections, or she’d be flattered that Tissaia sent someone with his pedigree.

“Wrap that email up in five minutes or less, and I’ll make it worth your while,” Vanielle informed her, slipping away and heading down the hall, back to bed. Over her shoulder, she added, “I can’t guarantee I can wait any longer than that without falling asleep again.”

Tissaia huffed softly in amusement, shaking her head as she typed away.

She hit send and checked the clock. A literal minute to spare. She grinned and shut her laptop, already untying her robe as she headed back to bed.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Renfri Fredesdotter looked far too young to be the head of anything, much less the head of the queen’s security detail. Eist gave her a long, studied look, after she introduced herself and took a seat, trying to gauge if this was actually some kind of joke.

This, oddly enough, felt a bit like interviewing the Ebbinger rebels in the Korath Desert, years ago. He and Mousesack had made various connections in a small mountain town, eventually earning enough trust and goodwill to secure a meeting with the leader of a rebel faction—at the time Nilfgaard had full control of Gemmera, the province between Nilfgaard and Ebbing, and the Ebbinger rebels were trying to help their southern neighbors regain autonomy (and also push back the black tide rising around their own doorsteps). Naturally, the leader was easily spooked, and they’d had to jump through several hoops, just to meet face to face.

Granted, this was the Queen’s Palace at Cintra, not some dirt floor hut where the mountains met the desert—but the set-up was eerily the same. He and Mousesack sat in chairs in the middle of the room, no table for a sense of balance, while Renfri took a chair opposite them, about four feet away (close enough to jump up and stop anything before it happened, yet far enough away to give her enough time to react, he knew—yes, this woman with a girl’s face definitely had some kind of special forces interrogation background, he could tell).

The head of security sat back slightly, arms crossed over her chest, knees wide and relaxed—yet everything about her body showed that it was ready to pounce, if need be.

Eist heeded the warning and made sure to avoid sudden moves.

“This is all a formality,” Renfri assured them, not bothering to smile. “Obviously, we’ve done quite a bit of research into your backgrounds—and will do much more, in the coming weeks—and the Queen has approved what she’s seen so far.”

She took a beat to size the two men up. The Queen had specifically wanted Renfri to be in a room with them, to truly take their measure. Renfri understood the reasoning, and more than anything, felt a measure of pride in knowing that the Queen trusted her judgment so implicitly. The photographer was a bit fidgety, but she’d guess it was because he was used to schlepping around places that most of the world hadn’t heard of, where having all your teeth was a minor miracle and baths was equally infrequent. The sterile opulence of the blue room—the room Renfri had chosen specifically as part of her psychological test—was unsettling to most people, with its ornately overdone wall paper in Cintran blue with white feathers, its carpetless marble floor, its walls lined with side tables displaying various priceless trinkets such as Bruggian jeweled eggs and Metinnan vases. The chairs didn’t belong here, no furniture did except the side tables, and the room itself always seemed mystifying in its purpose. It also didn’t match most of the palace, which had been thoroughly redecorated, once Calanthe had taken the throne (or so Renfri had heard—she’d been a mere babe at the time).

This room, however, had remained untouched. Some kind of odd museum, of which only the Queen understood the purpose.

Renfri didn’t need to understand. She just needed to see how they’d react to being in such an odd environment.

The photographer was slightly agog. Eyes constantly flitting from one detail to the next. Observant, catching little details.

The reporter focused only on her. Completely unimpressed and unfazed. And she could tell from his gaze that he was processing her, just as she was him. He saw the hangnail on her thumb, noted her body language, had probably even noticed the slight limp that no amount of physical therapy could fully eradicate (some bones just don’t ever mend properly, the doctor had decreed).

All in all, they seemed extremely well-suited for their jobs. Which made them potentially a threat. The Queen had hoped for someone easily-led and manageable. Renfri wasn’t sure she could say that about these two.

There was a slight shuffling noise outside, from the door behind her. The room itself had two entrances—one to Renfri’s left, a set of double doors from the main foyer, through which the trio had entered, and another, just over her right shoulder, a single door wallpapered to blend in, which led down a narrow hall and into the administrative offices at the palace.

The wall opened up, and Visindra Tirre, the Queen’s highest-ranking lady-in-waiting, appeared, offering a soft, small smile.

Visindra’s smile was a bit famous, truth be told. When it was genuine, it was accompanied by a little scrunch of her nose that was both disarming and utterly endearing.

She used it like a weapon.

Renfri felt both men relax slightly, upon seeing that smile. Yes, Visindra seemed like a bit of a cupcake, in her Cintran Cerulean sheath dress and whimsical lemon-print sweater, her blue open-toed heels topped with little crème bows with lemon buttons at the center. She was all warmth and light, as always.

“Good morning,” she greeted, practically a sing-song. She clipped across the marble floor, offering another round of nose-scrunching smiles as she took a beat to shake each man’s hand. “I’m Visindra, the Queen’s lady. I do so appreciate you coming all this way and I promise, I’ll try to make this as quick and painless as possible.”

Renfri rose to her feet, stepping back and allowing Visindra to take her chair. Again, that smile came out in full-force as Visindra quietly thanked her, delicately smoothing her hands down her hips and tucking her skirt properly around her knees as she sat.

“Now,” Visindra lightly patted her hands on her knees. “As you know, Queen Calanthe is the one sanctioning this little endeavor, but its main focus is the princess and the royal wedding.”

Eist nodded in agreement. He took a beat to observe Renfri again. She was just over Visindra’s shoulder, hands on her hips, but shoulders still a bit tight. Nervous about something.

He turned his attention back to Visindra. Picture-perfect posture, pitch-perfect accent. Obviously groomed her whole life for royal service, though she didn’t have the darker features that most Cintran royals seemed to share, thanks to extensive in-marrying—a foreigner, or at least the daughter of one. The queen was the only child of an only child, and most ladies-in-waiting had some familial connection, which implied that Visindra was some distant cousin, but still close enough to the throne to have been expected to fill this position her entire life.

She seemed…more wholesome, than most royal attachés. Very little makeup, hair worn loose instead of in a bun, nails neatly trimmed and devoid of lacquer. No jewelry, save the delicate gold lion’s head on a thin chain around her neck (a _lioness’_ head, he corrected himself—the personal arms of the queen herself). Wide blue eyes and a face that made you instantly want to trust it. Megawatt smile and hands that stayed perfectly folded in place, no signs of distress or nervousness at all.

It was the lack of movement in her hands that told Eist all he needed to know about her political capabilities. She was schooled in never giving away more than she should, which made her an excellent courtier and an even better lady-in-waiting.

Currently, she was turning her calm charm on Mousesack, “As I’m sure you’re well-aware by now, Princess Pavetta is not much in the public eye. And as the next ruler of Cintra, she’s highly aware that the rules of engagement are changing, when it comes to connecting to with her people.”

“So…you’re wanting to finally lift the veil,” Eist surmised. “In the most flattering light possible, of course.”

Visindra smiled warmly again. Her nose did not wrinkle this time. “I think everyone can admit to wanting to be seen in a flattering light, Mr. Tuirseach. But when you meet her, you’ll see that it’s thoroughly unnecessary. The princess is genuinely a delight. You won’t have to stretch the truth in the slightest to write about her charms.”

“She’d be the first royal in the world who didn’t need a bit of complimentary padding, then,” he noted wryly.

Visindra didn’t even bat an eye. “She is exceptional in many ways, sir.”

Damn, this woman was good. He grinned. The corners of her eyes creased slightly, a mutual moment of acknowledgement.

“Seeing as you will have nearly-unfettered access to the princess, it is vital that we ensure her best interests are kept at-heart.” Visindra leaned forward slightly, as if engaging them in a secret. “Which means we must perform our due-diligence in the hiring process.”

“Hiring?” Eist blanched slightly at that. “ _Hiring_ implies that we would work for the crown. And I assure you, madame, we do not. We are paid solely by _The Continental Post_ , and our only obligation is to uphold its tenets of unbiased reporting.”

She seemed amused at that, as if he were a child claiming that unicorns were real.

Eist immediately knew that he did not want this assignment—it smacked of propaganda. He felt Mousesack shift beside him, knew the man had caught the scent as well.

And yet, he also immediately knew that he had to take this one—if nothing else, he knew he could withstand whatever was thrown his way, be it enticement or threat, and he could protect and preserve the truth of the matter, regardless of what that truth was.

Despite her obvious disagreement, Visindra easily retreated with a placating, “I did not properly choose my words, and I apologize. With all this interviewing, it does feel as if we are hiring a staff writer. You must forgive me for using terminology that implied such. No, you are absolutely right—you will be here as guests of the crown, and for all of us, the truth is what matters. But I’m sure men in your positions—men who have seen as much as you have—can admit that sometimes the truth can be…told in such a way that it influences a specific reaction.”

“Is that what you’re asking us to do?” Eist kept his gaze locked onto hers.

She blinked, as if shocked he’d even ask. “Certainly not. I’m asking you to do the opposite—to _not_ be influenced by what others might have said or implied. To tell the truth without bias, and to let the people decide for themselves how to interpret it.”

“Dicey move,” Eist returned. “I’m sure a woman in your position can admit that often people interpret things differently than you intend them.”

Now she smiled widely enough to scrunch her nose ( _adorable_ , Eist thought, she was adorable, in the deadliest way). “Trust me, Mr. Tuirseach, some truths can only be interpreted one way. You’ll see.”

_Will we?_ His mind retorted. He was beginning to feel as if the wheels were falling off this interview’s wagon.

Visindra turned her attention back to Mousesack, “I don’t think you’ve said more than three words, Mr. Moussek. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

The photojournalist shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “I don’t make a living on expressing my thoughts. I shoot what I see, end of.”

“Ah,” she said quietly. With a light duck of her head, she added, “That is another item we must address. Obviously, there is protocol involved, when taking photographs. The Queen respectfully requests that she be given full access to your photos, at the end of each day.”

“Requests?” Eist repeated, hitting it with sarcasm.

“Respectfully,” Visindra returned with a smooth smile.

He huffed at that. Behind the lady, Renfri shifted slightly, on-alert. She’d been watching the entire exchange like a tennis match, eyes bouncing back and forth between the players without ever moving her head.

“The Queen also wishes to have first preview of your story, as it is being written,” Visindra added sweetly. Eist imagined few people ever refused a request she made, when her face looked like that—open and soft and disarmingly full of sincerity.

But he’d always prided himself on being one of the few, in any situation. “Not even my editor gets to see a work in progress.”

Visindra’s expression never wavered. “That’s rather unfortunate.”

They’d lost the assignment, Eist knew in that moment.

The double doors to his right shunted open so forcefully that everyone in the room jumped—Renfri and Visindra leapt to further attention, both on their feet and at ram-rod position, and Eist knew, before he could even fully focus, that the queen had entered the room.

He found himself rising to his feet and giving the customary bow (thanking the gods that Mousesack had the presence of mind to do the same) before truly looking upon the woman who’d breezed into the room like a hurricane.

Her portrait had not done her service, he immediately realized. In life, with motion and depth added to her features, she was far more attractive, even wearing her current expression. She’d barely stuttered to a stop, brows quirking downward in confusion as she scanned over the scene before her.

Eist realized that she must have intended to use the room as a shortcut, to get to the half-hidden door that Visindra had entered through. She hadn’t realized their interview was occurring here.

Behind her, another young woman skittered to a halt as well—though her expression implied that she’d been aware of what was in this room, obviously before she could warn the queen.

“Ah,” the queen blinked. Her voice was low, pleasantly so. “It is not often that I feel like an intruder in my own palace.”

“Your highness,” Visindra made a slight motion to the men. “These are—”

“I know who they are,” the queen gave a flutter of her hand, dismissing the introductions. “And I daresay they know who I am as well. So that saves us the bowing and scraping bit, doesn’t it?”

She focused her gaze on Eist, and he felt a small flush of warmth. He thought back to the odd feeling he’d experienced, studying her portrait at his flat in Aretuza—yes, there was something enigmatic behind the eyes, dark and almost-haunting.

“A pleasure to meet you, your highness.” He placed his hand over his chest, surprising himself with how easily he re-adapted to royal protocol—it had taken all he had not to simply give a full formal bow again.

The corner of her mouth hitched into an open-mouth smile, somehow both soft and sharp. Even her teeth were fascinating, Eist thought dumbly.

“Eist Tuirseach,” she drawled the name, cocking her head to the side slightly. “The little lost prince of Skellige.”

The moniker rankled, and though he tamped down the irritated sigh, he knew that she still saw—her gaze flicked from his shoulders, high and tight, to his hands, firmly clasped as if physically holding back a retort.

Her smile slipped further into darkness. She had his number, they both knew it. And due to the imbalance of power between them, he couldn’t call her out—they both knew that, too.

He absolutely should not take this assignment, he thought again. This woman was everything he hated about monarchs—the pompous, self-aggrandized air, the obvious delight in petty power plays, the exacting and manipulative turns of phrases. And he could tell that much in the first thirty seconds, which meant that it was even more pronounced than most (and that was saying something).

For all Visindra’s assurances, Eist knew beyond all doubt that this woman was looking for a spin-doctor rather than an unbiased reporter. And she’d be a hellaciously controlling tyrant throughout, doing whatever it took to ensure that her version of the truth (if it could even be called such) was the only thing that made it to print.

But Eist Tuirseach had long learned that he was the type to run towards gunfire, not away from it.

So he merely smiled, and said, “I don’t think I’ve been lost for quite some time, your highness. In fact, I’d say I’m the most easily found man in the world.”

She hummed at that, obviously pleased, though he couldn’t imagine why. She slowly clipped forward—like some goddess parting the seas, the room shifted to accommodate her. Mousesack stepped back, Visindra and Renfri both moved away as well, flanking the now-empty chair in front of the two journalists.

With an airy smile, the queen sat, lightly motioning for Eist and Mousesack to do the same.

The younger lady who’d burst into the room with her closed the double doors and moved to Renfri’s side. The two women exchanged glances.

That’s when Eist suddenly understood Renfri’s odd sense of nervousness.

This entire accident had been staged. The queen was, from the very beginning, always going to end up in this room. Visindra and the queen were consummate actresses, and they’d sold the surprise well, Eist could give them that. But the younger women, with far less experience in intrigue, gave the game away.

Still, it was best not to tell everything you knew, just to prove you knew something. Eist filed that tidbit away for later and merely focused on the moment at hand. He took in the details of this queen, who somehow was both exactly like and nothing like her portrait had implied. Even her wardrobe was a juxtaposition. Her Cintran Cerulean pencil skirt was tight and constricting (honestly, he could see just how it strained against her hips, when she sat—so tight she couldn’t cross her legs, even if she wanted to), while her crème silk blouse was light and flowing, sleeves rippling with every movement of her hands. The blouse also featured a tied collar, currently knotted so loosely that it gave an almost-scandalous glimpse of collarbone, and her makeup was far too dark to be entirely professional—yet her hair was in a demure braided chignon and pearls were in her ears, completely matronly.

She looked like a caricature of a queen, if they were in the kind of film that only showed after midnight and ended in absolutely unfathomable acts of outright debauchery. And yet somehow, she wore the look with such genuine authority that it somehow seemed perfectly at-place and natural. Eist’s head reeled as it tried to process the competing truths.

Calanthe watched the former prince as he visually and mentally catalogued her, willing herself to remain absolutely unaffected. She was used to gawking—part and parcel of the job, really—but this…was something different. She tried not to imagine exactly what he saw, how he interpreted it. She’d chosen every facet of this look with absolute precision this morning, intent on throwing both men off-balance enough to ensure they couldn’t focus properly—unfocused people couldn’t be anything other than honest, and that was important here.

With a wry flutter of irritation, she realized that he definitely would not be the type of pretty thing to store in a closet. Her initial assessment had been correct—he was far too sharp, far too quick.

And he wanted this assignment, far too badly. She tamped down a smile as she noted that his hair—a curly riot in his byline photo—was currently slicked back in a more presentable look, his face cleanly shaven and every button on his perfectly-pressed shirt fastened. His sleek expensive suit fit him well, and spoke to the care he’d taken in preparing for this interview, which in theory had just been five minutes answering questions with the head of security.

Hungry reporters—hungry men in general—were never a good thing, in Calanthe’s experience. The man sensed a story, and he’d find one, no matter what. It was exactly what she didn’t need to have hanging around.

But as usual, her needs were in direct opposition to her daughter’s. Pavetta needed someone with a keen eye and a sharp mind to chronicle this event, someone who could see this as more than just a wedding, but rather a chance to introduce Pavetta to the world. Calanthe didn’t fear anything the man might say about her daughter, because the girl’s character was impeccable, and her nature far sweeter than Calanthe had ever expected from a child of her own blood.

So for her daughter, she swallowed the fear induced by the entire charade, and slipped into her usual public persona.

“Renfri hasn’t tossed you out on the front step, so dare I assume the interview is going well?” There was something inherently false about the queen’s tone. Patronizing, almost coy.

Eist chose honesty, “I couldn’t say, your majesty. At the time of your arrival, I believe we were about to be dismissed.”

“Oh?” The queen cocked her head to one side, darkly-lipsticked mouth still slightly open in a curiously theatrical air. Once again, Eist felt like he was witnessing a scene from a late-night porno—she had the mouth for it, and paired with her breathy tone and far-too-wide-to-truly-be-innocent eyes, it seemed entirely obscene for the actual setting.

There was a beat as she watched him, fully-aware of how closely he was watching her. Then, something behind the eyes—a quick flash, a wink without winking at all.

This was all the confirmation Eist needed—this had been set up, and she’d been somehow listening or watching from somewhere else, breezing in before things went pear-shaped.

He leveled his gaze at her. “It seems there is a bit of confusion as to the nature of our entire exchange.”

“ _Exchange_ would imply that there is a sense of equal footing and dependency,” she arched her brow, as if daring him to insist that was the case. “As far as I understood, we were _granting_ access.”

“ _Granting_ would imply that there is a favor being paid,” he returned easily. With a wry arch of his own brow, he returned, “What favors do you owe Tissaia de Vries?”

She pressed her lips together at that, chest shifting with a stifled huff of irritation. Still, her eyes were tinged with amusement. “ _Privileges_ are granted as well, as a gesture of goodwill—and they can be revoked, just as easily.”

A warning. One which he didn’t entirely heed. He feigned slight confusion, “So this is a…privilege?”

“Do you not feel privileged?” She sat up a little straighter at that, shoulders barely shifting. There was a challenge in that subtle action, which he read loud and clear.

“Truly, we’re overwhelmed at the mere thought of such an honor,” he placed his hand over his heart again, eyes wide with false sincerity (see? He could play a schlocky role, too).

Now she grinned. Here was a fun playmate, she decided. He delivered his line with absolute pitch-perfect tone and facial expression, leaving no room for anyone to find fault, and yet, somehow, every ounce was still infused with such irreverence and sarcasm that his true meaning was plain as the day.

Over her left shoulder, Renfri shifted, more than ready to land a quick jab of her own—though hers would be physical rather than verbal.

Calanthe merely moved her fingers, never actually lifting her hand from her lap. Renfri noticed, eased a bit in response.

Eist noted the micro-interaction as well. The queen’s guard dogs were all thoroughly well-trained, he thought. He let his gaze slide over to Visindra, standing at the queen’s right shoulder. Her sweet, fluffy demeanor was long gone, too. She watched him and Mousesack with a shrewd gaze, feet firmly planted in an open stance and shoulders set in a way that spoke violence—he suddenly had no doubt that this woman, despite her appearance, could do just as much damage as the young, spry, special-ops trained head of security (and probably while wearing her adorably disarming smile the whole time).

Now, why would a queen need this much backup, just to meet with two lowly journalists?

He absolutely had to get this assignment. He realized that he’d agree to any outrageous terms, say anything, make any promise, if it got him a ringside seat to whatever was really going on here.

“I’m assuming the confusion is regarding the terms of the arrangement?” The queen queried (she knew full well, Eist thought, but she played the blankly uninformed role with extreme conviction).

“Aye, your majesty,” he played along.

“Then we shall endeavor to clarify,” she drawled. “State your own terms.”

He paused. She blinked.

“Come now, don’t pretend as if Miss de Vries doesn’t already have a clear outline for exactly what she expected this meeting to cover—and exactly what terms she wanted you to agree on.” The queen’s expression was flat, devoid of emotion. She wasn’t a patient thing, he noted. And she wasn’t interested in any deviations from whatever internal game she’d decided to play.

With a nod, he reached down into his bag, pulling out a printed copy of the email Tissaia had sent him this morning, which included points on access, clearance, and other finer minutia that he could have easily settled on his own, but he knew her need to reiterate was more about dealing with her own nerves rather than a genuine fear that Eist wouldn’t remember to ask for such accommodations.

The queen took it and immediately handed it to Visindra, not even bothering to glance at it. The absolute power of the move stunned him, for a flash.

He fully understood his brother’s comment before: _She’s always either the best guest, or the worst_. She held the air of a spoiled child, and Eist understood what her moods must look like: charming and coy, when being given her way, or unbearably bratty, when being denied.

He needed to understand her. Like a puzzle without a clear guide, a riddle with no readily understood answer, her already glaringly-obvious complexity picked at his brain and pushed his curiosity further.

The assignment was the princess. That didn’t mean he couldn’t use it to learn more about the queen.

She casually glanced over at Mousesack, almost bemused. Still, she didn’t deign to question his silence. Perhaps she understood that unlike Eist, he was not accustomed to such settings and was already far too overwhelmed.

There was an odd air of mercy, in her studied avoidance of acknowledging him fully, Eist realized. She still puffed and preened in Eist’s direction, challenging him in odd and small ways, yet she didn’t do the same with Mousesack—as if she could sense that he would not be up to the task of fighting back.

A tyrant with a sense of fair play. The puzzle got more confusing. He needed to solve it.

Fate, it seemed, was against him. Visindra made a small noise, obviously not happy with something she read in the email. And like flipping a switch, the queen’s smirk vanished; she looked as bored as could be. She rose to her feet, heading back to the double doors she’d blown into minutes before (further proof this was staged—why not go through the door that had supposedly been her target in the first place?).

Eist and Mousesack scrambled to their feet to bow, though she was already opening the doors by the time they did.

“Do enjoy your stay in Cintra,” she offered breezily, not even deigning to look back. “We wish you safe travels on your return to Aretuza.”

The younger woman hurried out behind her. Eist looked back at Visindra, who was still reading over the email, fingertip lightly tapping against her bottom lip as she contemplated.

“It is important that we…manage expectations,” Visindra decreed quietly. “We’ll need some time to fully explore how to properly adjust terms, on both sides.”

With another nose-scrunch, she dipped her head in both men’s direction. “A pleasure, gentlemen. Like the queen, I wish you well on your travels.”

She spun on her heel and disappeared through the door she’d entered as well. Renfri merely motioned to the still-open double doors.

That was that, then. Eist felt a bit dazed, as if he’d just been wound up and set loose, like a child’s spinning top. Mousesack practically bolted, more than eager to be shot of the place.

Once they stepped out into the foyer again, Renfri easily moved to the front, guiding them back to the main entrance. Out of habit, Eist glanced around again, taking in the details of the austere and clean-cut space, so starkly opposed to the room they’d been sitting in.

A movement, down another corridor, caught his eye.

The queen. At the further distance, he truly was able to note the full dichotomy of her outfit—her skirt didn’t even allow for full range of motion, her hips swiveled more than natural in an attempt to give her legs an easier stride, while her sleeves billowed and rippled like war banners.

Again, he headed in the direction of gunfire, rather than away.

“Your majesty,” he called out, his long legs easily eating up the distance between them (in that skirt and those heels, she couldn’t outpace anything, anyways).

She whirled around, face lined in genuine surprise. And then from seemingly nowhere, Eist was met with a wall of man.

“Danek,” the queen’s tone was a warning.

Eist stepped back, fully taking in the man standing in front of him. Young, broad-chested. Decidedly security detail. Decidedly ready to dislocate Eist’s neck from his shoulders, if need be.

Eist held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He raised his voice, directing it at the queen still. “Your majesty, I just want a word.”

Renfri was already at his back, her anger radiating against his skin as palpably as the heat of an open flame.

“Danek,” the queen repeated. This time, her tone was softer. The younger man stepped to one side, still giving Eist a long, hard glare.

Eist ducked his head slightly. _Yeah, I know, I fucked up with the sudden movements. Sorry about that, bud._

He’d forgotten how easily spooked personal guards could be. For years now, all he’d dealt with were the ones assigned to his family, and they all knew him well enough to know he meant no ill-will towards their charges.

“Apologies,” he said, as he moved closer to the queen. She simply regarded him down the length of her nose. Again, she wore a mask of supreme indifference.

That’s all it was, though, he realized. A mask. Even one as well-crafted and impenetrable as this—it was still just a mask. She was curious, even if she didn’t show it, or else she wouldn’t have let him get this far.

She shifted as he took his final steps in approach, squaring her shoulders and facing him fully. He lowered his voice, so that only she could hear.

“What’s the real story here?” He asked quietly. He’d found that the truth was often the easiest path to success—just being open and respectfully honest with the subjects of his pieces was generally enough to remove any odd feelings between them. In this particular case, he knew all-too-well how this woman most likely spent her days surrounded by people who hardly ever said what they meant, or meant what they said. Honesty would be a refreshing change, he thought. Besides, it was obvious that they both had a solid read on each other, and it seemed insulting to pretend otherwise. “Despite all your hesitations, you’re going to grant access. And despite all of mine, I will agree to your terms. But we both know that you could have invited a Cintran press publication to cover all this, and yet, you came to _The Post_ instead. Why?”

She blinked at that, and in a brief flash, he saw her mind spinning as she weighed her options. Finally, she spoke, “The world is changing, Mr. Tuirseach. We must change with it. That means creating a more…transparent relationship between the crown and the public.”

“In Pavetta’s case, not yours,” he clarified, knowing full-well the answer.

She didn’t even smirk at that. “She will turn twenty-one, in the week before her wedding. According to custom, she will be formally recognized as the heir to the throne. I may hold the title, but in the eyes of public opinion, her reign begins.”

“And you want the people to know their queen.”

A small, stiff nod confirmed his statement.

“That still doesn’t explain why I’m here, instead of a Cintran journalist.”

“Because you have no stake in this,” she said simply. “Tell me, did you not do a little bit of digging, before your interview this afternoon?”

She knew he had, he could tell by the certainty of her tone. Noting his expression, she arched a brow, lowering her voice further into a whisper, “So which of those venomous vipers should I have let into my home? The one that thinks she’s a robot, or the one who is rather certain I snatched her up in the night, like something out of a child’s bedtime story?”

Her voice, despite her words, was rather pleasant, he noted. Raspy and rich, when she was keeping a lower tone.

“A valid point, your majesty,” he conceded quietly. She was watching him with a kind of slow, almost-lazy curiosity, and he felt a bit like some small creature being mesmerized by the gaze of a snake—he knew he shouldn’t be staring back, but he found himself unable to look away.

Then, with another blink—after which, Eist noticed that her eyes seemed to…melt, with indescribable softness—she quietly intoned, “I must do everything I can, to ensure my daughter’s success as a ruler. A queen cannot endure without the support of her people, and a people cannot support what they do not know.”

He hummed at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing (truthfully, he wanted to point out that her peopled didn’t truly know their current queen, but it didn’t seem like the appropriate time for such observations).

Then, with another dizzying shift, she seemed to rise to her full height again—in her heels, she was practically eye-level with him, a fact made even more noticeable by the way she leaned in slightly, as if issuing a challenge.

“Don’t ever barge after me again,” she warned, tone shifting from rasp to rumble. “It would be wise to note that Danek doesn’t protect me from you—he protects _you_ from _me_.”

There was a growl, and almost-bite to her words, lips curving up into a snarl. Again, he was caught by her teeth. Something about them was absolutely feral—in this moment, he wouldn’t be surprised if she actually bit him.

She took a beat to merely stare directly into his eyes, straight to his soul. A slow burning arch of her brow, followed by a sharp turn on her heel, and she was clipping her way down the hall again, without so much as a backwards glance.

“See you in six months, dear prince,” she called, words punctuated by the steady pulse of her heels on the carpeted floor.

For some reason, he felt compelled to bow again. As if she could see it, as if she cared.

Renfri Fredesdottor’s hand was firmly at his elbow, pulling him back.

“If I had my way, I’d be burying you in the rose garden right now,” she growled.

“You may still get the chance, before this is all said and done,” he assured her.

Mousesack was still standing in the foyer, eyes the size of saucers. Thankfully, he waited until they were outside the palace gates before speaking.

“What the fucking fuck, man?”

Eist began to laugh, the odd anxiety of the whole afternoon finally bubbling up and out his lungs.

“I don’t even know,” he admitted, giving a wry shake of his head. And it was true—he still wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened. He glanced over at his friend, offering a winning smile, “I promised you a once-in-a-lifetime event, didn’t I?”

Mousesack swore and walked away. “I’d rather have a blade to my throat in some backwoods hovel in Gemmera.”

“It did feel like the Korath Desert again, didn’t it?” Eist doubled his pace to catch up. With a wry grin, he added, “Though you were far more talkative then, compared to this afternoon.”

“I don’t _do_ amicable afternoon chats with ladies and queens,” Mousesack threw his hands out in exasperation. “I do the clickey-clickey camera bit for a _reason_ , Tuirseach.”

“Yes, a prime example of why words are not your strong suit,” Eist commented.

His friend gave him a dark look, though his exasperation was mainly feigned. After a beat, Mousesack quietly asked, “Are you really going to agree to those terms?”

“What? Complete censorship?” Eist offered another smile. “Absolutely. At least for _that_ story.”

Mousesack looked at him in mild confusion.

Eist leaned in, assuming a conspiratorial air. “We’re agreeing to terms regarding a story on the princess. But once it’s all said and done, nothing can stop me from writing a story about the queen herself.”

He felt almost giddy at the thought. Sure, he’d play her game. He’d bow and scrape and agree to terms that dictated every facet of his life, for the two weeks prior to the royal wedding. He’d pretend to focus solely on the princess—and when he was done, he’d have more than enough to write a companion piece on her mother.

He could see it now: a side by side comparison, the old queen versus the new. It was already practically writing itself.

He was suddenly quite thankful that Tissaia had saddled him with this assignment. It might just be the most fun he’d had in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental Casting: for Visindra Tirre, I always imagine the incomparable Sidse Babett Knudsen. She really does have the world's most adorable smile.


	4. ::Royal Press Release/Excerpt from The Continental Post::

**ROYAL PRESS RELEASE:: Announcement Regarding the Festivities Surrounding the Princess of Cintra’s Wedding and Investiture.**

Her Royal Highness Princess Pavetta Fiona Elen of Cintra, Duchess of Sodden, formally announces her intention to wed Duny Urcheon, Lord of Erlenwald. As is tradition, the couple will first bring their suit before the Queen’s Council for a blessing from the nobles, followed by a public reading of the banns the next day at the High Steps of the Temple of Modron. A customary thirteen-day waiting period will ensue, followed by the royal wedding at the temple. A full list of festivities and events will be released via the Crown's official website, after the Queen’s Council gives its official blessing on the union.

The Duchess of Sodden will celebrate her twenty-first birthday during the week before the wedding. Following Cintran royal custom, her birthday celebrations will include a formal show of recognition as the Crowned Princess of Cintra. The Royal Wings are scheduled to perform an airshow in honor of the investiture.

* * *

** From This Month’s Edition of The Continental Post **

‘ _The Black Tide May Retreat, But It Always Leaves a Stain’_ : For Metinna’s border towns, time stands still.

By: Eist Tuirseach. Photographs by: Anton J. Moussek.

**Curgaso, Metinna.**

It has been a decade since Nilfgaardian forces marched into Rhoden’s village, singing songs of victory to their emperor. And yet he can still recall the refrain, word for word.

“Some things stay with you, always,” he says, looking off to the mountain pass that now stands empty. The grass has regrown since the soldiers set fire to the surrounding fields, once more lush and green and utterly idyllic, dotted with herds of goats and young boys with staffs and no shirts.

Those forces did not stay long—nor did they stay victorious. But for people like Rhoden, who lost his entire family in the uprising that followed the village’s capture, their legacy continues on, infiltrating every day of his life.

The land may have rebounded—in fact, it’s hardly recognizable, compared to the war-torn images taken just after the arrival of Nilfgaardian soldiers—but for the rest of the town, time has come to a standstill.

The houses are the same, though a bit more pocked by bullet holes, a bit more worn around the edges. Economically, the inhabitants still barely hang on, surviving on the land and their own turns at agriculture and herding. Despite a decade of advancements in technology and medicine, many die from entirely preventable diseases, and the entire village still continues to live life without items that most continental citizens would consider basic necessities.

Even the village’s electric supply isn't guaranteed. It comes from hydropower—a less-than-reliable source.

“If it does not rain, we do not have electricity,” Mira Novuella comments. She shrugs, as if that is simply the way of things. “In the summer, when the rains do not come as often, we can go six, maybe ten weeks without power.”

While many of the younger generation leave in search of better prospects in the city—or even further north, out of the country entirely—the older residents refuse to abandon their home.

“My father is buried here,” Mira states. “And so are my children, and my husband. How could I leave them?”

To call Curgaso a ghost town might seem melodramatic, but there is an irrefutable fact: the dead still influence the decisions of the living here, to the point of overruling.

“My father died, just at the entrance to the pass,” Rhoden nods in the direction of the mountains. “He gave his life for us, for this place. To abandon it now would be to spit on his memory, on his sacrifice.”

[ _story continues on page 57_ ]


	5. Changes and Chancellors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental Casting Note: For Sibba, let's imagine the lovely Sofie Gråbøl, shall we?

**City of Cintra, Cintra. (Now Fifteen Days Until the Royal Wedding)**

Eist grimaced slightly as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and rubbed a little more aloe into his cheeks. He’d been back from Metinna for just over a week, and he was still paying for his hubris (he did this, every time, always forgot that even though it didn’t feel that hot in the mountains, he was so much closer to the sun, and his fair Skelliger skin was still highly accustomed to cloudy skies and low elevation).

From the screen of his phone, which was currently propped up against the sink facet, his sister Sibba grinned via videochat, looking so much like their mother that it seemed uncanny.

“You know you’ve got skin cancer by now, don’t you?” She drawled, not seeming too concerned at the thought.

“I do not,” he countered, adding more aloe.

“When’s the last time you saw a dermatologist?”

“When I got back from Nilfgaard, last year.”

“You need to go annually.”

“I will, Sibba.”

“Melanoma works quickly. You don’t want to wait too—”

“I _will_ , Sibba.”

She hummed amusedly at that. Fifty-one years old, and she still took unmitigated glee in annoying the hell out of her baby brother. Eist rolled his eyes. So much for age bringing maturity.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me.” She took on a primmer tone. “You know good and damn well I wouldn’t have to nag so much if you took better care of yourself.”

“You know good and damn well that I do take care of myself,” he returned easily, screwing the top back on the aloe bottle and returning it to the medicine cabinet. “You just enjoy nagging.”

“It is one of the fast and easy joys of life,” she conceded.

Now he scooped up the phone and grinned at her. She was smiling back. There was a six-year difference in their ages, but somehow, they’d almost always been a bit more like twins.

When he’d first renounced his claim to the throne, things had been understandably a bit tense between him and his family. Sibba had been the exception. When he’d packed his things and run off to Lyria in search of some kind of life outside everything he’d ever known, she had tracked him down. Called him incessantly, wrote letters, sent emails. Refused to let him leave her, emotionally at least.

She’d already been the Jarl of An Skellig then. Married and pregnant with her first child. She had every excuse to disappear into her own life. But she hadn’t.

Now she was still the jarl, with four kids and even more demands upon her time and sanity. Now that Bran was king, she was next in line for the throne until his son’s eighteenth birthday—and since Bran’s coronation, she’d taken over as the official head of Clan Tuirseach. And yet here she was, still finding time to check on him.

“Can you promise me something?” She tilted her head slightly. “After this, never shave again. You look weird, without some facial hair. Like one of those cats, you know? The hairless ones?”

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“You _do_ ,” she insisted, though her tone didn’t hold much conviction. She was just trying to distract him, he knew. She used to do this all the time, when they were waiting to be introduced at court functions. She always seemed to sense his nervousness, always seemed to know whether to make him laugh or to simply acknowledge it with a comforting sense of her own calm.

She was pretty stellar, as far as sisters went. He’d honestly fight anyone who thought theirs was better—though he’d just as easily fight her, over something ridiculous and petty. Such was the way of siblings.

Or most siblings. He didn’t feel as strongly about Bran, though he was a solid enough big brother. But there had always been a distance between them. Maybe it was the thirteen-year age gap. They were constantly in different seasons of life, more so than most siblings, and it made it harder to find common ground. Their parents had changed so much in those thirteen years, too—it had seemed as if they’d been raised by entirely different people as well.

Of course, there was the raging gulf of differences between them, when it came to opinions on life in the monarchy and the role of rulers, and the difference between duty and destiny and whether or not expectations should be filled simply because they existed.

“So glad I can always depend on you for the pep talk,” he informed her, walking into the living room of his rental flat. It was a nice set-up. He’d made arrangements shortly after Cintra confirmed the assignment, nearly five months ago, and moved in three days ago for a month-long lease.

The interior was a bit dark ( _ye gods are you living in a cave?_ Sibba had snarked, leaning in and squinting at the screen), but it reminded him of his flat in Aretuza, which was so far north that the sun hardly shone for half the year anyways. The walls were exposed brick, the cabinetry all jet-black with chrome appliances and dark walnut countertops. The walls without brick were either black or navy, and even with the high ceilings and bank of windows on one side of the entire flat, it always felt cool and shaded. Secluded, in the middle of a crowded city. Calm, despite the chaotic streets and flashing billboards below.

“As if your ego ever needed a boost,” Sibba returned with a roll of her eyes. Then, with a slightly more serious air, she added, “Besides, you’re already in. I can guarantee you, if Calanthe didn’t want you there, you wouldn’t be within sight of the entire country. The woman knows her mind.”

“You’ve met her before?” Eist was mildly surprised, then a bit surprised that he was surprised in the first place. Of course Sibba would have met her, at some state dinner or another. Her rank ensured she was present at most affairs of state.

Sibba hummed. “Fascinating woman. I’d kill for her stylist.”

Fascinating. That seemed to be the adjective du jour, when it came to the Queen of Cintra. Eist noted it, but instead took the chance to tease his sister, “Willing to commit murder over a pretty frock? Doesn’t sound very jarl-like.”

Sibba shrugged. “I like her color palette—and she always finds cuts that complement her quite nicely. Most days I’d gladly murder Maelike for far less, so everybody wins. I get a chic look, and far less grey hairs, and Maelike is finally free of her mother, who is currently out to destroy her life as it is.”

Eist chuckled at that. Sibba’s second child and eldest daughter, in the full throes of teenagedom, was a bit too much like her own mother for them to live in peace, at the moment. “What have you done now, you awful, wicked mother?”

“I refused to allow her early enrollment into the Royal Navy,” Sibba informed him, utterly straight-faced. With an arch of her brow, she pronounced, “It seems she is becoming a bit too like her beloved uncle.”

Eist felt a bit more sober at the thought. Maelike was only sixteen—it would be another two years before she’d be old enough to enlist without parental consent. But even then, she’d need her mother’s blessing, or else the naval officers would refuse to even grant her entrance exams. There was an understanding, for members of the royal family (another complaint against the monarchy he had—the different set of rules between princes and poor boys).

He’d convinced his own parents to sign the early enlistment documents, when he’d been seventeen himself. Had busted his ass and served his country with pride for nearly a decade after that.

And now, he knew he’d been far too young to witness half the things he’d seen, in the war-torn southern half of the continent. Truth be told, some things would always be too much for anyone to see, regardless of their age.

His most recent trip to Metinna had only reminded him of that.

“What are you gonna do?” He swallowed, throat suddenly feeling a bit tight.

Sibba sighed, looked away from the camera.

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. She sounded tired. She suddenly looked every day of her fifty-one years. After a slight pause, she added, “It’s…different, when it’s your own child. I remember thinking Mother and Father were making the right choice, with you—you were so determined and headstrong, you were going to do it anyway, so why wait a year? But now…now all I can think is that she just doesn’t know. She’s so young and she just doesn’t know. For all her determination and dedication, she just…”

She didn’t repeat the refrain again, but Eist heard it all the same: _she just doesn’t know_. He also heard the second half of it, the part echoing in every word: _I just don’t know, I just don’t know, she’s still my baby and I just don’t know_.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” He offered, unsure of what else to do, but feeling a measure of responsibility, all the same.

Sibba blinked at that, face contorting in confusion. “No—I mean, I don’t think it could hurt, but—I couldn’t ask you to step in like that.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered,” he pointed out. Mentally, he went over his schedule for the next few weeks—fifteen days with the princess, followed by a week of holing himself up to finish writing, most likely. Then, he offered, “I’ll be fully wrapped with this, in three weeks’ time. How about I fly up to An Skellig and spend the rest of the summer with my family?”

Now his sister smiled again, all soft and syrupy. “I’d like that.”

“I’m not going to try to change her mind,” he warned.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I will be brutally honest about what she’s in for.”

“I expect nothing less.”

“I will also most likely encourage her to renounce the monarchy and pursue a life of debauchery and derring-do—”

“Shut the fuck up and jump off." She rolled her eyes, holding her hand up enough for him to see her flick the fish, a three-finger gesture that was a sign of contempt in Skelliger parlance.

“Again, extremely un-jarl-like,” he informed her, in mock seriousness.

She arched her brow. “In the good old days, I would be expected to hoist the sails and gut men alive, all while cursing and spitting and fucking my way through half the crew. So I’d say it’s _extremely_ jarl-like.”

He laughed in agreement. If anyone were suited for life as a pillager, it was his fire-and-fury sister.

Thoughts of fire and fury instantly turned his mind back to his current assignment, and the queen responsible for it. He bit back the desire to ask his sister for more of her thoughts on Calanthe of Cintra. He needed to form his own opinions, he knew. And while he’d already gotten a pretty strong look at the woman’s personality, there was still plenty that could be influenced if he paid too much attention to outside opinions.

They could talk about her, afterwards. Once he was back on An Skellig and fully enmeshed in writing his second, secret article.

A knock on the door made him frown in a mixture of curiosity and surprise. “Gotta go, Sib. Someone’s at the door.”

“Assassins, already? I thought she only met you once.”

He gave her the fish as well. “Jump off.”

“Ladies first, bitches second,” she decreed. With that, she hung up.

It was evidently clear who the bitch was, in this scenario. He rolled his eyes and headed for the door.

It was the young lady who’d tumbled into the room, behind the queen, six months ago.

“Triss Merigold,” she offered her hand with a smile. Without preamble, she stated, “Your flight wasn’t supposed to land until today.”

“I switched flights,” he admitted with an easy shrug, taking the offered hand and giving it a curt shake. “My lease started three days ago and I hate to waste money.”

She looked at the open floorplan behind him. “Well, I hope you’ve got some kind of refund insurance.”

He frowned at that.

“It is the queen’s wish that you stay at the palace,” Triss Merigold informed him, clasping her hands in front of her. “For ease of access and…security purposes.”

He noted the way her right hand tightened around her left wrist. She was nervous, asserting her authority in this situation—nervous that he wouldn’t comply without a ruckus, or nervous that she’d somehow fail her mission for her queen, he wasn’t entirely sure. She was young, compared to the queen and Visindra; she couldn’t have been installed at her post for very long.

Luckily for her, he wasn’t one for petty power plays—or for refusing direct orders from the subject of his current piece, since his goal was to disarm the queen, not make her distrust him further. He stepped, back, motioning for the young woman to enter.

“It will take a few minutes to pack my things,” he informed her.

She gave a slight nod of understanding. Her shoulders relaxed, just a little.

She remained close by the door, the entire time. Once he was fully packed and they were in the elevator, headed down to the private car, he took a moment to truly assess Miss Merigold.

She was young. Maybe thirty. Most likely native Cintran, given her darker features. Her style emulated her queen: a rich brown pencil skirt and a thin satin blouse (in Cintran Cerulean, naturally). The one exception being her hair, which was worn down and in a glorious riot of curls. She wore two items of jewelry: a small, silver pin in the shape of a raven’s feather, a sign of her allegiance to the House of Raven, which was the Queen’s familial line, and a silver disk around her neck, inscribed with the sign of Yrden.

So she was religious. Or a new-age type who enjoyed the aesthetics of the old ways.

It had been over a millennia since the elves and other firstborn left the world, taking all magic with them. Now large swaths of the population believed that if they adhered to the tenets of old, if they prayed hard enough, the firstborn might return, might bring back the blessed reign of magic and mystery again. There were still plenty who believed such things never actually existed, but rather that the lack of technological advancement allowed the masses to believe in monsters and magic, where all explanation could be found in logic and scientific explanation.

Eist didn’t have an opinion, either way. Because either way, there was no magic in the world now, and every monster he’d ever encountered was thoroughly human. What did or didn’t exist in the past had no effect on the present. If people needed to believe in something to help them survive the chaos of life, then let them. If they needed to believe in nothing, then let them.

He wondered which category Miss Merigold landed in. And which, subsequently, did her queen.

Calanthe didn’t seem the religious type. Then again, he didn’t rightly know what type she was.

He’d know soon enough, he reasoned.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Eist’s bedchamber and ensuite bathroom were nearly the size of the entire flat he’d rented. He rolled his eyes at the ostentation, remembering exactly why he’d left palace life in the first place, all those years ago.

A quick, rhythmic knock sounded on his door. Mousesack. He recognized the distinct tempo.

He opened the door with a lift of his brows, which Mousesack returned.

“Cush perks, no?” Mousesack slipped into the room, looking around in curiosity, obviously comparing it to his own room. “I’m half-afraid to touch anything, much less actually sleep in the bed.”

Eist chuckled in understanding. The heavy brocaded coverlet on the bed was expensive enough to feed a family in Metinna for a year, most likely.

“The curly-haired girl was waiting for me at the airport,” Mousesack motioned in the general direction of the rest of the palace and its staff. Unlike Eist, he hadn’t worried with renting a flat, instead choosing a hotel and setting his check-in and -out dates for the exact length of their assignment. “Felt a bit cloak and dagger. Being picked up unexpectedly, told my location was changing.”

Eist frowned, “A bit odd, isn’t it? The sudden change in plans? We’ve had half a year to sort these details out, and the day our assignment starts, things change.”

“Maybe the queen’s management style isn’t as precise as we’ve been led to believe,” Mousesack shrugged. He didn’t sound particularly convinced—and Eist wasn’t either. They’d both met the woman; the idea of her being less than an absolute control freak was unfathomable.

Another knock on the door drew their attention.

This time, Eist wasn’t surprised to see Triss Merigold smiling up at him.

“I trust you’re both settled in?” She craned her neck around him, offering a small smile to Mousesack as well.

“We are, thank you.”

“Good. I’m to take you to the queen now. Afterwards, you’ll get to meet the princess.”

She stepped back, waiting for them to join her in the hall. Eist closed the door to his room, feeling a small wave of certainty that most likely, someone would come to rifle through their things, while they were away. Their bags had already been scanned and tested for all manner of residue, upon arrival. He was beginning to sense that the queen might have a touch of paranoia.

* * *

Today’s meeting with the queen held none of the off-balanced feel from their first encounter. They were in her office, sat in two comfortable chairs in front of her desk, where she sat almost imperiously. She was wearing a suit jacket with shoulder pads that only emphasized the proud set of her posture, and today’s makeup was far more demure. Her hair was in another chignon, but this time a braid ringed around the top of her head—a subtle nod to the crown that rested there, even if at the moment, it was only metaphorical.

She was setting the tone, Eist realized. Absolute decorum to enforce the nature of her position—and in turn, the nature of theirs.

Once greetings were made, Eist quietly pointed out, “I must admit, your highness, we were both a bit…surprised, to find that we were now staying inside the palace itself.”

The queen smiled at that. “You know what they say. Friends close, enemies closer.”

Not the opening volley he was hoping for. He only had two weeks to fully gain her trust, to get the clearest view of her true self—and if she already viewed him as an enemy, then he needed to clear that up as quickly as possible.

“I assure you, madame,” he placed his hand over his heart. “I harbor nothing but goodwill—”

“Well, it is only your first day,” she gave a slight shrug of dismissal. There was something theatrical about it, almost playful. Not that he dared to play—there was a fifty-fifty chance that it wouldn’t be well received, and now was not the time for taking risks.

It was a bit like diffusing a bomb, he thought. The slightest change in pressure could set her off.

“Now,” the queen shifted forward in her seat, propping her elbows on the desk. “While I do want you to be able to create an accurate portrait of my daughter, I will remind you that she is still entitled to a private life, and to the complex emotions that go with it.”

He gave a curt nod, wholeheartedly agreeing.

The queen continued, “At the risk of sounding overly-controlling…”

_Overly-controlling_ , his mind mused. _So she can readily admit that she is controlling, at least._

“…I do have a list of things which you absolute cannot ask her—under any circumstances.” She leveled a deep, dark gaze at each man. Her voice became slower, as if wanting to ensure they comprehended every syllable, “If you do—if you ask anyone around her, anyone _at all_ —then I will consider it grounds for immediate dismissal from the palace, and I will not hesitate to act accordingly.”

“And lose your story?” Eist was a bit curious.

She blinked, in a slow, feline way. “Mr. Tuirseach, please disavow yourself of the notion that you are the only writer on the face of the continent. Or even that you were the only one who was interviewed and approved as a potential candidate.”

So the queen had a backup. Good to know. With a slight nod of understanding, he quietly asked, “What are the questions?”

The queen took a beat, almost as if steeling herself without actually moving a muscle. With another slow blink, she monotonously intoned, “You will not ask her about her father, or his death. You will not repeat any of the ridiculous nonsense about her origins, which no doubt you have read. You will not mention King Roegner in her presence at all—and I would much prefer if you didn’t in my presence as well.”

Eist waited, expecting more. When nothing else came, he prompted, “And that is all, your highness?”

“That is all.”

With a small flutter of intuition, Eist Tuirseach began to feel as if he’d just found a shining clue. He had no idea what it could signify, but his intuition was already tingling.

* * *

**Nastrog, Verden.**

Yennefer Vengerberg made a small sound of triumph when she saw the Lyrian chancellor’s profile in the back seat of the passing car. She readjusted the camera around her neck and resumed her innocently curious air, looking up at the centuries-old buildings with wide eyes, as if she hadn’t seen them a hundred times.

She never was one for architecture, any ways.

She raised her camera, pretending to snap a few shots of the vaulted arches. Out of her periphery, she saw the car stop, the passenger door open, and the chancellor step out. She lowered her camera again, as if contemplating which way to go at the street corner, angling her lens towards the hotel entrance and continuously snapping as the chancellor hurried up the steps.

Men in positions of power were always so ridiculously predictable, she thought with a smirk. Like children at a sweets buffet, they were never content—whether the sweets were sex or money or simply having the power to create backroom deals and run political intrigues for the fun of it, they never stopped, never considered when it might be too much, never understood the concept of enough.

This particular man was getting a pretty large sum of cash for pushing forward Verdenian interests in a new trade deal.

Still, shots of him and some Verdenian contractors both entering the same hotel on the same day were not enough proof. Granted, she had a paper trail and a flow chart (currently, her rental flat looked like some deranged serial killer’s den, with newspaper clippings and printed-out online articles, a board filled with pushpins and purple string connecting players and events together), but people always wanted the visuals.

Feigning slight confusion, she walked across the street, towards the hotel. She’d done this bit before. Pretend to be lost, ask the staff for directions. They’d usually be more than happy to help—and usually, they’d be too busy concentrating on her worn-out tourist map to notice her own eyes scanning behind the desk, learning the basic operations of the hotel and how to circumvent them.

It was noticeably cooler in the hotel’s marble lobby, and Yennefer shivered. Her shorts and tank top were perfect for strolling in the summer heat, but now she felt clammy, almost sick.

She was halfway to the front desk when a voice stopped her: “Yenny?”

She hated that name. Hated the voice that spoke it almost as much.

Still, she pasted on a smile as she turned on her heel, rubber sneaker sole squeaking against the polished floor.

“Brina,” she retorted warmly, knowing her opponent hated that nickname as much as she did Yenny.

Sabrina Glevissig looked posh and polished, as always. Blonde, board-straight hair in a long ponytail, not a hair out of place. Full makeup, with a pair of oversized sunglasses that screamed _celebrity in hiding_. High-waisted trousers, white and perfectly pleated, with a navy-striped crop top that only enhanced the size of her breasts. Perfectly lacquered red nails, to match her strappy platform sandals. Smiling sweetly as always, without any actual warmth at all.

“Imagine bumping into you here,” she removed her sunglasses, giving Yennefer a slow once-over. Her brows continued to rise at the beat-up sneakers, the denim cutoffs and the plain white tank top. Yennefer’s hair had long since fallen victim to the heat and the humidity of the seaside town—currently it was scraped back into a utilitarian, if not entirely sleek, ponytail.

“I’ve always prided myself on my unpredictability,” Yennefer drawled, opening her arms as if to say, _yeah, take a look, I don’t give a fuck, you pretentious twat_.

Sabrina was practically vibrating with glee. She wanted Yennefer to ask why she was here. So naturally, Yennefer did not.

“Welp, nice seeing you,” Yennefer abandoned her plan, quickly heading back to the front door.

“Let’s grab a drink,” Sabrina announced suddenly. When Yennefer whirled back around to face her, she added, “If you have time.”

Unfortunately, Yennefer did have time. And if nothing else, drinking at the hotel’s bar would give her excuse to hang around, perhaps catch another glimpse of the chancellor.

“Why not.” She didn’t even try to sound enthused.

* * *

Despite their glaring differences, the two women did have a bit in common, Yennefer had to (begrudgingly) admit. They both enjoyed tracking down a good lead, and in their own way, each had a flair for telling stories.

Sabrina was never one to go long without crowing, though, and Yennefer soon learned that she was here to host the summer fashion watch for some local station.

“I’m surprised Tissaia let you out of the house for that,” Yennefer couldn’t stop herself from commenting—or from letting the bitterness tinge her tone.

Sabrina blinked at that. “Why wouldn’t she? Loaning me out to another network feeds directly back to TCP by broadening our reach.”

“I would think it would go against the rules of some sort,” Yennefer shrugged, swishing her straw around her mixed drink. It had flowers in it, which tasted a bit gross, but the liquor was hard and that’s what counted, more so than the flavor.

Sabrina laughed softly, face lined with an almost patronizing air. “Tissaia isn’t nearly as…strict as you make her out to be. The woman bends plenty of rules, all the time.”

Something in Sabrina’s knowing little smirk irritated Yennefer more than usual. Maybe it was the insinuation that she knew Tissaia better than Yennefer—which granted, was probably true at this point. It had been five years since her stint at TCP. She and Sabrina had been hired on at nearly the same time, which meant at this point, Sabrina had been there for eight years.

Eight years. Where did the time go?

Maybe it was the insinuation that perhaps Tissaia was just strict with _her_ , for whatever reason. Or the equally insinuated idea that perhaps it was Yennefer’s reaction that was out of proportion, not Tissaia’s actions in the first place.

“She’s doing well, by the way,” Sabrina’s tone became impossibly soft, almost kind. Yennefer’s gaze snapped back up to her face.

“Well, good for fucking her,” she returned, her tone in complete opposition to the gentleness of Sabrina’s.

Sabrina smirked, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder, as if she didn’t care either way. She’d just offered some kind of olive branch, Yennefer realized all too late. But now it was retracted, and their usual sparring continued.

“More than well, most would say,” Sabrina studiously avoided Yennefer’s gaze. “Now that she’s shagging Vanielle.”

“The dippy _art_ director?” Yennefer knew surprise and derision colored her tone far too deeply, but the words were out before she could filter them.

Now Sabrina looked up, eyes lined with amusement ( _ha, ha, caught you, Vengerberg—I knew it_ ). “That dippy art director has been dipping into the editor-in-chief for nearly a year now, if the rumors are to be believed.”

“Oh. Rumors.” Yennefer waved away the thought. Rumors were rife in a press office. For a place supposedly dedicated to truth, the stories floating around the staff were usually far from it.

“I’d think the same, if I hadn’t walked in on them,” Sabrina’s eyes were gleaming. She knew just how much her words stung, Yennefer could tell, and the brunette hated every bit of this entire interaction. With a dramatic shake of her head, she added, “I came to look over the layout of my winter fashion spread—only to find Vanielle practically spread over it. And Tissaia! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a redder face, in all my life.”

Sabrina chuckled softly at the memory. She’d pretended not to notice how far Tissaia’s shirt was unbuttoned, or how Vanielle’s skirt was practically up around her hips as she sat on the edge of the layout table (giving an entirely new meaning to the phrase)—and the reward for her silence was Vanielle agreeing to all her layout edits, a silent and tacit _thank you_ for her discretion. She’d certainly learned to knock before entering Vanielle’s office, ever again.

“Honestly, if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I probably wouldn’t believe it, either,” she admitted. And it was true—aside from that, the two women kept a remarkably low profile. She assumed that was half the allure. Carrying on an affair in a building full of reporters, and feeling as if they’d somehow flown under the radar.

Yennefer merely hummed. Maybe that’s why Tissaia seemed less strict to Sabrina—she’d finally found some kind of outlet for all her aggression.

Because Tissaia did have aggression. As much as she always tried to pretend to be some serene and unflappable editor, floating above it all, she still carried a deep sense of rage at the injustice of their world. Yennefer knew. She could sense it, because she had her own. Birds of a feather, water seeking its level, all that jazz.

Except Tissaia had become so focused on controlling her rage that she’d forgotten that sometimes, it was a necessary emotion to feel. Sometimes, rage had to be acknowledged and given voice.

It was one of the many arguments they’d had, at the end. Well, if they could be considered arguments—Yennefer yelled, Tissaia endured with her usual stoicism.

_The truth cannot be presented in emotion,_ Tissaia had drawled. _It is truth. Immutable, unassailable. To color it with your own feelings creates bias, and bias creates opinion. And opinion is never truth, not entirely._

Yennefer’s response had been to throw a coffee mug. Not her finest moment, though honestly, still probably not her worst, when it came to Tissaia.

The woman had barely blinked. As if she’d fully expected Yennefer to behave so petulantly. That was probably the bit that hurt the most—the unspoken charge against her character that Tissaia’s lack of surprised offered.

But then again, Tissaia hadn’t been wrong. After all, Yennefer had done just that.

She’d also gone straight out of the office and bought a new mug. A better one, one that actually fit Tissaia’s style. She’d left it on the editor’s desk, while she was out. They’d never discussed it. Yennefer wasn’t even sure if the woman had noticed, or kept it.

She felt a perverse urge to ask Sabrina about it. As if the woman would know—as if she’d tell Yennefer, even if she did.

Just then, she spotted the chancellor, walking back through the lobby.

“Gotta go, Brina,” Yennefer pasted on a false grimace of disappointment. “Do send my regards to everyone back at TCP.”

She slid off her barstool.

“Does that include Tissaia?” Sabrina’s voice stopped her, nearly pulled her back entirely.

However, Yennefer didn’t give her the satisfaction. Didn’t even turn around as she casually offered, “Sure, why not.”

She hurried out into the lobby again. By the time she reached the sidewalk, the chancellor’s private car was already gone.

She cursed, setting her hands on her hips and squinting in the early afternoon sun.

She had an almost-petrified urge to bolt back inside, to tell Sabrina not to say anything to Tissaia in passing. But that would make it too obvious, and honestly, would only encourage the woman to do the opposite.

Besides, what did she care, really? What could Sabrina say? _Oh, I ran into Yen in Verden. Still a hot mess. Still a bratty little twat._ None of that would surprise Tissaia in the least.

Maybe that was it, she thought. Maybe she did was to surprise Tissaia, in some way. Prove her wrong. Prove…something.

_The art director_ , she frowned at the thought, shaking her head at the idea. Vanielle was nice, as far as Yennefer could remember—but truly a bit dippy, in that weird-creative-artist way. Some of that quirkiness was just from being Bruggian, Yennefer now knew. She’d lived in Brugge, briefly, two years ago while chasing a story. Charming people. Odd as fuck, though.

Maybe Tissaia liked odd. It was hard to imagine the woman loving anything outside the blandest, basest archetypes.

Didn’t matter. Yennefer didn’t care, either way.

With a frustrated sigh, she headed back to her own hotel. Better luck tomorrow, she decided. For now, she needed to truly get drunk.


	6. Faults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a dash of Elder Speech in here, but I have zero clue how the syntax works so if it's a bit wonky...let a bitch know, mkay? In this universe, at least, Elder is a bit like Latin in terms of prevalence, fyi.

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

It took Eist less than five minutes to fully understand Visindra Tirre’s certitude that she wouldn’t need him to twist the truth to show Princess Pavetta in a good light.

She looked like a living doll, with her delicate features and soft smile, wearing a floral print sheath dress and a demure sweater, hair in a twist that resembled her mother’s, a series of braids that Eist now knew was some kind of nod to Cintra’s heritage—he’d seen the portraits lining the walls, warrior women with masses of braids, equally fierce kings whose beards were braided along with their shoulder-length locks. Much like the special patterns woven into the heavier knits the Tuirseach family wore, during the winter months—each Skelligen clan had a knit pattern specific to themselves, almost as identifiable as their actual crest.

Tradition woven into every aspect of life. The weight of historic expectation was almost stifling, and it wasn’t even directed at him.

“I do apologize that we couldn’t wait until tomorrow, when you’d at least had a decent night’s rest.” The princess smiled, a bit chagrined. She led them further into the drawing room, lightly motioning for them to sit in two brocaded chairs, taking her own seat at the settee opposite them. “But the schedule of events for the next week is a bit…involved, and I did want to have some time to simply get to know you both, before we truly hit the ground running.”

She gave another small, breathless smile. She’d obviously rehearsed that little speech, before they arrived. She was nervous, desperate to make a good impression. Something in her open vulnerability made Eist immediately want to reassure her.

“We’re quite used to whirlwind schedules, your highness.” He took a seat and glanced over at Mousesack, who nodded in agreement.

There was a coffee table between them and the princess, already filled with a tea service and pastries. Pavetta quickly took tea orders and had them both plied with tea and treats before continuing.

“I’m afraid Duny’s still out and about.” She glanced at the large windows, which looked out to the private gardens and rolling hills beyond. “But you will meet him at dinner, tonight.”

Noting Mousesack’s look of mild terror, she quickly held out a gentle hand, reassuring him, “It’s a private affair. Just us and my mother, and whichever of her ladies haven’t gone home for the evening by then. No bowing or flowery speeches, I promise. Just some rather good food. Steak, if I’m not mistaken.”

Mousesack relaxed slightly at that.

“Of course, you’re not required to attend,” she added, casting another glance back at Eist as well. “I don’t want either of you feeling like you’re being held hostage by societal expectation.”

“That’s quite kind, thank you,” Eist smiled.

“We’d be delighted to attend,” Mousesack added, and Eist felt a ripple of shock that his friend had even been able to respond verbally, much less with such flowery affirmation.

Only further proof of Pavetta’s calming influence, Eist thought.

Now the princess’ expression turned knowing as she spoke, “Still, I’m sure there will be evenings when you’ll feel…the need for a bit of distance.”

Eist was rather certain she was talking about her mother, not herself. And he was equally certain that would probably prove true, over the next two weeks.

As if confirming his suspicions, Pavetta made a slight face as she added, “I hope my mother…has not been too aggressive, in her setting of terms. She means well, but she often…overcorrects.”

Eist held back a chuckle at the adorably tacit way she tried to admit that her mother could be a bitch. Instead, he offered another smile. “Your highness, we have dealt with warlords and rebels—the good queen does not faze us.”

Pavetta lifted her brows in mild surprise at the pronouncement. Then, she quietly admitted, “I would love to hear your life’s story someday, Mr. Tuirseach. Especially if it led you to a place where you could look upon my mother and not blink.”

He laughed at that, unable to stop himself. Pavetta’s face broke into a wide grin as well.

They were on good footing, he decided. He chanced his first question, “I take it that your mother wasn’t entirely thrilled about the idea of creating such an open dialogue with the press?”

He actually already knew the queen’s view of it, but this was a good gauge to see how honest Pavetta would choose to be with him.

She shook her head, “It was mostly her idea, actually. She and I have long discussed how the role of monarchy is changing, and how public perception affects and is affected by that change. She understands the need to make my reign my own.”

He hummed, slightly surprised. “And how to you plan to do that, your highness?”

“Creating a sense of greater transparency is the first step,” Pavetta gave a small nod. “Then I’d like to look at restructuring the candidacy requirements for the Liegeman’s Council—”

A soft noise from the corner of the room caught everyone’s attention. With a jolt of surprise, Eist realized there was a fourth person in the room. A whip of a woman, short and thin, with a severe brunette bob and almost-avian features. Whether she’d been here the whole time or merely slipped in unnoticed during their conversation, Eist couldn’t say—and he was slightly shaken, realizing that someone had gotten the jump on him, in some way.

Pavetta blushed as she returned her attention back to Eist, “Sorry. I, ah—I have a long list of ideas, for when I officially take the throne.”

Now Eist fully understood what had just happened. Pavetta was still being babysat, her words carefully filtered.

Still, in this instance, he understood. She was so young, and obviously she hadn’t had much experience with the press, with the kind of insinuations people could make or how a single phrase, printed out of context, could end a piece of legislation before it even truly began.

He offered a small smile of reassurance. “I’m not here to cover anything other than your wedding—and your birthday, technically, I guess. I have no intention of revealing any of your plans for the future.”

“We’re not those type of people, your highness,” Mousesack added gently. And it was true, they weren’t the kind who went after good people, weren’t the type to dig up things just to cause a stir. They exposed atrocities, not angels.

“So tell me,” Eist changed subjects easily. “How are you feeling about the next two weeks?”

Now her smile was full, tinged with anxious excitement. “A bit overwhelmed. But in a good way. There’s so much to do; it feels as if there isn’t possibly enough time to get it all done. And yet, at the same time, it seems to take forever. I don’t know. It’s a wild mix of contradictions and I’m just…trying to savor it, as much as I can.”

She was going to make a beautiful bride, Eist realized. Blushing and beaming and obviously in-love. Yes, Visindra had been absolutely right—the world would easily fall in love with her. She was like something out of a fairy tale, what kind and good queens were always imagined to be, in the best of ways.

Idly, he wondered how on earth this was Queen Calanthe’s progeny. The internet crazies might be on to something, he thought wryly.

The conversation continued on quite pleasantly, as Princess Pavetta explained the process behind tomorrow’s event—the moment that would officially start the entire two-week process of the royal wedding, the statement of intent to the Queen’s Council, a group of the country’s highest ranking nobles who controlled the legislative branch of government. It was merely an archaic formality, as were most of the ceremonies throughout the week. Duny and Pavetta would appear before the council, Pavetta would give a speech declaring their intentions, and afterwards the nobles would vote to officially give their blessing upon the union, swearing to help protect it—and any progeny it would create—to the utmost. 

Seemed like an awful lot of people, swearing to be involved in a marriage between just two individuals. But Eist supposed that back when the tradition was founded, there had been greater need and importance behind the act.

Once again, the idea of living a life dictated by the ways of people who’d been dead and buried for centuries boggled his mind. And yet, like his views on religion or lack thereof, he felt that if someone derived comfort and meaning from it, who was he to judge?

The woman in the corner rose to her feet eventually. In a pleasantly light tone she announced, “I do hate to interrupt, but it is time for us all to go upstairs to dress for dinner.”

Pavetta smiled at the men again. “See you soon, gentlemen. I know Duny will be absolutely pleased to meet you. He’s usually a bit outnumbered, so he’ll be glad of the reinforcements.”

With that, the princess left the room, along with the other woman. Triss Merigold appeared again, to lead them back to their own rooms.

Eist remembered dinners with his own family, back when he’d been younger. They had been rather quiet affairs, as close to a simple family dinner as it could be in a palace, he supposed. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect in Cintra, though. Triss mentioned that dinner was casual, so slacks and a button-down were acceptable (and Mousesack had still blanched at that, poor man). Eist still rolled his sleeves and wore his collection of Gemmeran woven bracelets. A small act of defiance to decorum, but one that helped him feel a little more like himself.

The queen’s private dining room was a long room with a vaulted ceiling but somehow, it still felt cozy. The electric lights were turned low, most of the room still thoroughly lit by the wide row of windows down one side, which were opened to reveal the late evening sunlight. In Cintra, night didn’t fall until after eight o’clock in the summer, which meant it would slowly darken throughout dinner—there were candles upon the table and sideboards, already lit, adding an almost-festive air.

The table itself could hold twenty people (a table for twenty, in a private dining room—Eist wanted to laugh at the ostentation), though only half of it was in use. Unsurprisingly, the queen sat at the head, with Visindra at her left. Next to Visindra sat Pavetta, then Duny. Beside him sat Triss Merigold.

On the queen’s right was a lady Eist hadn’t met, followed by Eist and Mousesack. And next to Mousesack, the lady who’d been in the drawing room with them, who now introduced herself as Hille.

“And that’s my sister, Alcise,” she nodded down the table, to the lady on Eist’s left.

Hearing her name, Alcise turned to offer both men a charming smile, “How’d you do, and welcome to Cintra.”

Eist immediately noted the strong familial connection between the two women: wide smiles, dark, hooded eyes, dark brunette hair, square jaws and sharp noses. Like Visindra, they held the air of being bred for their positions, and their coloring declared they were Cintran royalty, through and through. Their accents were slightly different from Visindra’s, or even Calanthe’s. A strange little wisping lilt, around certain consonants, and only here and there. Eist wasn’t sure if it was an en vogue affect, a family physical condition, or a hint at a childhood raised in a vastly different region of the country (quite plausible, as Cintra was the largest country on the continent, and as such, covered a wide swath of regions, dialects, and historical backgrounds).

Like Triss, the sisters both wore silver raven feather brooches, a sign of their allegiance to House Raven. They probably actually were members of the house, Eist thought.

Despite the slightly laxer air, Eist still assumed the meal would be coursed. To his surprise, they were served the steak and vegetables immediately upon sitting, no bevy of soups and palate cleansers beforehand.

He glanced up to see the queen watching him with a slight smirk, obviously pleased with having thrown him off, even in such a small way.

She gave no comment, though. Instead, she turned to the staff member currently pouring wine for Visindra. “I’ll have a beer, Mr. Lynna.”

Then she raised her voice lightly, ensuring it carried down to Mousesack’s end of the table, “At the risk of being terribly intrusive, Mr. Moussek, I must admit that I have heard you share my fondness for…less frilly alcohols.”

“Frilly,” Visindra huffed at that, taking a small sip of her dark red wine. “As if this Sodden vintage couldn’t knock you on your pompous arse.”

The queen cut a look at her lady, but there was no true anger behind it. More than anything, she looked as if she might actually grin, Eist realized.

She didn’t, however. She turned her gaze back to Mousesack. “We’re renowned for our ale, but our lager is lovely as well. And it pairs quite nicely with this particular cut of steak, if you’d like to try.”

Eist and Mousesack might not have been able to find out much about the royal family before their first interview months ago (or even after that)—but the queen’s research team had been unendingly thorough. Mousesack was nothing if not a sucker for a good lager.

“I would, thank you,” Mousesack dipped his head slightly, obviously still a bit overwhelmed.

Again, Eist found himself mystified. She could be gracious and thoughtful, when she put her mind to it. But when he glanced back at the queen, he found her smirking again, arching a brow slightly.

 _Oh yes_ , her smug expression seemed to say. _I know everything about you, Mr. Tuirseach. So be careful_.

It was a point made, wrapped in the guise of courtesy.

Alcise waved away Mr. Lynna’s query as to her choice of alcohol. She directed a meaningful look across the table at Visindra as she quietly intoned, “Someone has to remain sober enough to fulfill her duties this evening.”

Visindra merely grinned, nose wrinkling quite thoroughly. She took another long sip, keeping her gaze on the lady across the table, as if daring her to complain again. Alcise merely pressed her lips into a thin line, giving an exasperated, yet somehow affectionate, shake of her head.

These women had served the queen together for quite a long time, Eist realized. There was a playful camaraderie between them, almost sisterly.

“Visindra is off the clock,” Calanthe reminded her quietly. She was leaned in towards Alcise, but tapping her hand lightly beside Visindra’s plate.

“Yes, I’m sure any potential emergencies will be quite respectful of that,” Alcise returned, sotto voce.

Calanthe ducked her head and huffed in amusement.

Mr. Lynna had finished making the rounds with the wine (which Eist had chosen—and Visindra was right, it was rather robust) and left to get lagers for those who wanted it—the queen, Mousesack, and Hille, apparently.

Now Mousesack and Hille were engaged in a discussion on various brands and brews. It was the most relaxed Eist had seen him all day. As the countess of both Attre and Tigg, Hille apparently had several breweries under her purview—including the famous Lion’s Head, a personal favorite of Mousesack’s.

Again, when Eist looked back at the queen, he saw her watching the interaction as well, with an almost-triumphant expression. And again, he was met with juxtaposition: the odd amount of smugness, still somehow connected to an act that was a small kindness, but an important one, nonetheless.

Mr. Lynna returned with the lagers and finally, dinner commenced.

Duny had been taking riding lessons for some upcoming fox hunt in the fall. Apparently it was a favored past time of Alcise, whose gentle voice and reserved looks seemed at odds with such a hobby—but then again, Eist was quickly learning that the queen’s ladies rarely matched the physical description they gave out to the world.

For example, Visindra, in a floral print dress with a Cintran Cerulean sweater, was whispering the bawdiest story to the queen, who merely smiled and nodded as she cut up her steak. Eist couldn’t hear all of it—partially due to Visindra’s low tone, and partially because he was also trying to continue his conversation with Pavetta, currently seated across the table from him—but the parts he did hear were so scandalous that he was slightly shocked they’d be uttered at any dinner table, particularly a royal one with a barely-adult princess sat right next to her.

Pavetta noticed his flitting gaze. She leaned in a bit, offering a conspiratorial smile, “There’s a reason we call her Auntie Sin.”

“Oy,” Visindra sat back, lightly smacking the princess’s shoulder at that. Pavetta merely giggled. Now Visindra turned her attention to Eist, “Didn’t I tell you, Mr. Tuirseach? She’s an absolute darling, isn’t she?”

Pavetta flushed at that, but in the way children do when being complimented by people they love and admire. It was sweet.

“The princess is a credit to her station,” Eist agreed. He could feel the sudden shift of the queen’s gaze, sliding back to him. There was something wary in it, he could sense without even glancing over at her.

“Here, here,” Visindra took up her wine glass again, raising it in toast. “ _Elaine blath, feainnewedd, rhenawedd Xin’trea._ ”

“ _Rhenawedd Xin’trea_ ,” the rest of the Cintrans at the table echoed, raising their various glasses in toast.

Eist had studied Elder Speech, like any good pretentious noble, but it took him a few moments to fully translate the toast: _beautiful flower, sun child, princess of Cintra_.

Yes, an apt description for the shining, blushing princess. Her future husband leaned in, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, and Visindra hooted in approval, despite Alcise’s attempts to shush her. Even Calanthe rolled her eyes as she sipped her beer, though again, she seemed more amused than irritated at her lady’s juvenile antics.

Eist tried to reconcile this with the woman he’d met, six months ago. Visindra had been as smooth as a snake, coiled and ready to strike. Perfectly poised and polished, the epitome of decorum and civility. Now he half-expected her to take her bra off at the dinner table, all while perfectly sober.

Apparently the queen’s court, like the queen herself, was nothing but competing juxtapositions. He honestly wasn’t sure that two weeks would be enough time to unravel them all.

Pavetta was shaking her head at Visindra again, but still smiling warmly in the woman’s direction. Visindra reached out, affectionately patting Pavetta’s leg under the table.

Further down the table, Triss leaned in, thoroughly invested in a discussion with Hille, Mousesack, and Duny on the vagaries of cross-border travel in the southern continent.

Alcise shifted slightly, turning a bit more to Eist. In her pleasant, genteel tone, she remarked, “I read your most recent article for _The Post_ , on Curgaso. Quite a fascinating read, I must say.”

“Thank you.” He nodded slightly, shifting to mirror her body language. “It really is fascinating—and equally heartbreaking—to see how much has changed, and how much hasn’t, in the last decade.”

“It’s an entirely different world down there, isn’t it?” Her eyes were impossibly soft, tinged with such concern. She was a tender heart, Eist’s mother would say.

“It is,” he agreed. “But not in the way most people think. It’s not just a bunch of backwoods goatherders in dirt shacks—these people preserve a history, a set of skills and mythologies and a way of doing things that have been lost elsewhere in the world. Even in their own country, there’s such a stark difference between the urban and the rural. It’s a shame that so much of it will be lost, within a generation or two.”

“Some things aren’t worth preserving,” the queen decreed, having obviously eavesdropped on the entire conversation.

“And who gets to decide that?” He asked, sitting back in his chair and fixing his gaze on her.

She shrugged theatrically, taking a beat to sip her beer. “The current generation is already deciding that, apparently. As is their prerogative.”

“Sometimes decisions are made without full forethought—or without the benefit of truly understanding what is being lost.”

“Most decisions are made without being able to truly understand what is being lost—or what is being gained, for that matter.” She set down her beer but didn’t release it from her grasp, frowning slightly at the glass as if she didn’t recognize it. Then she looked back at him, eyes wide with curiosity. “Is that not the very nature of decisions? That we can never be truly certain of their outcome—much less their impact—until they have been made?”

“In theory, yes.” He gave a slight nod. “But if history has proven to us the most likely outcome—in this case, that once those stories and skills are gone, a part of the people’s heritage disappears with it—are we not obligated to help mitigate the impact of the decisions younger generations are currently making, since we know full well that one day, they may very well need those stories and skills again?”

“You cannot learn another’s lesson for them,” she decreed.

“No, but you can help teach it with far more kindness than life would give on its own,” he retorted easily.

She arched her brow at that. With a slight shift of her shoulders, she raised her beer to her lips again. “Coddling is often confused as kindness, when in reality, it is a far greater cruelty.”

She focused her dark eyes on her beer as she drank. He got the distinct feeling that she was quoting someone from her own past—a parent, perhaps.

He hoped he was wrong.

Visindra cackled rather riotously at something Duny or Pavetta said, and everyone else at the table jumped slightly at the sound. By the time the joke had been explained, the Queen of Cintra had slipped away from the table, out of the room entirely.

“She does that,” Alcise informed him quietly. In truth, no one else seemed to even notice, much less be concerned. “A bit like a cat, in a way.”

Eist merely hummed. The lady-in-waiting leaned in a bit further, adding in a low tone, “You and Mr. Moussek will still be expected to attend an evening debriefing in the queen’s office, once dinner is finished. I will take you.”

He nodded, knowing there was nothing else to say. Then Alcise allowed a warm smile to slip over her features as she returned her attention across the table, where Visindra and Pavetta were taking turns telling the story of some excursion that involved a runaway horse and someone being stung by a bee.

Eist hadn’t laughed so hard in ages.

* * *

Calanthe turned sharply on her heel again, pacing back down the length of her office. She’d hoped the beer at dinner would help ease her nerves, just a little at least, but that seemed to not be the case.

Again, she catalogued every interaction she’d had with the two reporters, that afternoon. Everything Hille had reported to her, after their meeting with Pavetta. Everything she’d observed, at dinner.

With a slight air of frustration, she realized that she could find no fault with either man. They appeared to be following the terms of their agreement.

Well, _almost_ no fault. There was still one comment that played over and over in her mind—she’d get straight to matter on that one, as soon as Eist Tuirseach was in her office.

She wondered how dinner was progressing, in her absence. She found that people often felt more open, more comfortable, when the queen wasn’t in the room. She’d encouraged Visindra beforehand to be less reserved than she usually would, with outsiders at the dinner table. Had assigned Alcise and Hille their roles as well, which they’d performed beautifully, as always.

Well, she hadn’t given Alcise much chance to truly strike a rapport with the lost prince—she hadn’t been able to stop herself from butting into the conversation.

It was interesting, that a man who’d seen what he’d seen could still be so romantically idealistic. So…fervent.

Heavens help her, she wouldn’t mind redirecting that fervor elsewhere. She had hoped that she’d find the man irritating enough to crush whatever odd sense of attraction she’d felt upon seeing his photo, months ago. Unfortunately, he was simply the right amount of irritating—enough to be interesting, too little to be truly anger-inducing.

And he could hold a good debate. She’d always enjoyed a man with a bit of bite, someone who could hold their own (a rare thing in her world, where most people bent over backwards to please her, caving to even the smallest of her whims). Brains, brawn, and backbone.

He had to have a flaw. Something unforgiveable. They always did.

She may have already found it, she reminded herself. She’d know, soon enough.

She walked over to her desk, interrupting her pacing to idly flip through the stack of papers in her outbox. Alcise would take them away, when she finished for the evening. Now was her last chance to double (triple) check everything.

At the top of the stack was the final draft of her letter to the Queen’s Council, issuing her own blessing for the union of her daughter and Duny. She could not be present at the statement of intent—it simply wasn’t done. Besides, she wanted Pavetta to stand on her own two feet, to show herself fully capable of commanding a room full of senior nobles.

At the end, Lord Stregobor would read her official statement, giving her own seal of approval to start the vote, which would be unanimous (she’d already made sure of that, though there had been no true reason for an objection in the first place). She hated the idea of Stregobor’s voice delivering her blessing to her own child, but it was the way of things. Even the Lioness had to bow to custom sometimes. After all, without custom and order, she would no longer be queen of the beasts.

Perhaps it was best that she wasn’t allowed to read it aloud herself. Even now, just skimming over it, her throat was beginning to tighten with emotion.

The Great Lioness of Cintra, bawling her eyes out before the Queen’s Council. No, that certainly wouldn’t do.

A knock on the door turned her focus elsewhere. She tossed the papers back in their box, smoothing over the lines of her jacket and skirt before calling them to enter.

As expected, Alcise’s pale face appeared, quickly followed by Mr. Moussek and Mr. Tuirseach. They both seemed far more relaxed than they had been, when they entered her office this afternoon. Good drink, good food, good company—it always worked wonders.

She motioned to the two settees in the middle of the room. She and Alcise took one; the reporters took the other, the coffee table between them like a battlement.

“Obviously, we do not have much to discuss this evening, but I do want us to…establish the habit, from the start.” She kept her hands folded in her lap and her gaze evenly divided between the two men. Mr. Moussek was finally warming up, she thought. Finally becoming able to handle the sensation of being in the palace. “I will not always be on-hand to manage the details of your stay or your schedule, but I do hope you both feel comfortable enough to entrust your concerns to any of my ladies, all of whom you met tonight. As of right now, is there anything more you need to make your stay here more…agreeable?”

The men exchanged glances.

“No, your highness.” As expected, Mr. Tuirseach was the one who answered. With a wry smile, he added, “We’re accustomed to bunking down in tents in the middle of the desert, so we’re more than set to manage a few nights in a palace.”

“Yes, well. One would hate to earn a bad review on the state of our amenities,” she drawled. He grinned at that.

Fuck it all, he had a nice smile. A little sly edge to it, just enough to hint at trouble.

 _Faults_ , she reminded herself. She rose to her feet, signaling the meeting was over. “Pleasant rest, gentlemen.”

Alcise was at the door, opening it and guiding them out.

“Mr. Tuirseach? A word, if you please.”

It wasn’t a request, and he was smart enough to know it. Alcise shot her a quick look, silently asking what she should do—Calanthe merely nodded, and Alcise understood, moving out into the reception area with Mr. Moussek.

The former prince moved back towards her, brows quirking in a mixture of curiosity and confusion.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “How did you find the princess?”

He blinked at that, as if slightly confused. Slowly, he began, “She’s—”

“A credit to her station?” Calanthe guessed, not giving him even the slightest chance to finish. She cocked her head to one side, watching him intently. “And that’s…all?”

“I’m not sure—”

“You called her that, this evening. Visindra called her an absolute darling, and you hedged.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

She hummed at that. Quietly, she pointed out, “Men often hedge, when they know their true thoughts should not be voiced aloud.”

Now his eyes widened with understanding. “Your highness, I can assure you—”

“You cannot, unfortunately.” She stepped forward, bridging the distance between them. He shifted as well, almost stepping forward himself, shoulders fully squared to face hers. “You see, just as I know what kind of lager your photographer likes, I know all about your own…preferences.”

His brows shot up at that, “Excuse me?”

“Your highness.”

He did a double take, face lined with absolute bewilderment.

“Excuse me, _your highness_ ,” she clarified, correcting his earlier misstep. It was a petty, bully move, and she leaned in to it with every ounce. She took a step closer, jutting her chin forward defiantly. The slight shift in proximity sent a charge crackling across her skin, and gods above if it didn’t make her want to lean further in. So she did, pushing her tone into a lower register, “And don’t play the shocked and indignant card with me, Mr. Tuirseach.”

“It isn’t a _card_ , your highness,” he retorted. “It is a genuine reaction to a baseless accusation—”

“ _Baseless_ would imply I have no reason for making such assumptions,” she pointed out.

“Yes, that is the definition of the word.”

She arched her brow. Waited.

“Your highness,” he added, every syllable dripping with sarcasm.

She smiled _, That’s a good boy_. She shouldn’t take as much delight as she currently did, pulling rank with such pettiness, but she could see how it irked him, and it only made her want to do it more. She’d always been one to poke the bear, to toss more fuel on the fire. This was no exception.

Besides, _he_ irritated _her_. Had done, all through dinner. He was charming and he knew it and he played to those charms, and it was _fucking irritating_ , knowing she had to sit back and be the reserved and restrained queen, knowing that she couldn’t play with him at all. So ruffling his feathers was really only fair play.

But there really was a point to discuss. “No, no, you see— _baseless_ would only work in this situation, if I didn’t already know about your little girlfriend from Temeria. The twenty-four years old, if I recall?”

His eyelids stuttered at that, brain quickly reeling to catch up. “Twenty-seven.”

“Ah. So she’s a full six years older than my daughter, rather than three. What a relief.” She flicked her eyes to heaven in melodramatic gratitude.

“And she wasn’t—she isn’t—” He threw his hands out in exasperation. “Yes, we had some fun. As two consenting adults are wont to do. But our connection was vastly different—”

“Let’s make sure it remains so.” She cut him off, without so much as a blink. “I’m sure the idea of sweeping a beautiful young princess off her feet is a charming one, but we have lives that continue after your little story gets written, and I won’t have her marriage start off with rumors about her being too close with the reporter who covered said wedding.”

He flushed bright red at that—not from embarrassment, but from anger, she could tell.

“I’m a professional,” he said simply.

Oh, but he wanted to say more. She could practically feel his bones vibrating with righteous indignation—but he kept his mouth shut. _Ah, now one of us has to be restrained and it isn’t me._ She felt measure of petty relief at the thought.

“Good,” she returned easily, turning on her heel. Breezily, she added, “You can pass along the warning to Mr. Moussek as well, if you think he might need it.”

She was hitting her points too hard, she knew. But she couldn’t stop herself. He unsettled her—even now, even when she knew she was in control and fully in possession of the upper hand, it felt like walking across a wire (and a live one, at that).

“If this was a genuine concern, why did you approve me for this assignment?” His voice followed her, lined with curiosity despite its irritation.

“Because it wasn’t a concern, until your odd turn of phrase at dinner,” she answered simply. She turned back to him. The greater distance between them made it easier, she realized. The electric feeling in her veins retreated. He was just a man, again. Yes, she'd only reacted that way before because his body language had shown that he was willing to step up and fight, and she'd always enjoyed a good row, that was all, nothing more. “I can understand the allure of a pretty young thing, Mr. Tuirseach. And from an intellectual standpoint, water seeks its own level—”

“Age certainly does not always bring wisdom,” he pointed out curtly. No points for guessing the implication there.

 _Touch_ _é_ , she thought. With a slight shrug, she continued, “As you pointed out—what two consenting adults do on their own time isn’t my business. And truth be told, I know Pavetta is wildly in love with her fiancé, but I also know the way men can…behave, when they’ve been denied something that they think they want.”

His expression shifted slightly at that. With one last weighted look, she added, “Again, it isn’t my business. But if it could potentially affect my daughter, it immediately _becomes_ my business, you understand?”

His lips were pressed into a hard, thin line, but he gave a single, curt nod. His fists were still clenched tightly, highlighting the tendons in his wrists, currently exposed by the rolled up sleeves of his button-down.

She tried not to stare. Tried not to imagine exactly how they’d feel, with her hands around them, pinning them down.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The man was definitely more trouble than she’d realized.

And now she didn’t have any faults to hold against him (currently, but this was only day one, so give her a minute).

She wanted him as far away from her as possible. But again, what she needed was in direct opposition—she _needed_ him closer. She needed to make him an ally, not an enemy.

She wouldn’t apologize. It wasn’t who she was. Still, she offered, in a much softer tone, “My daughter is my highest responsibility. There are so few things I can truly do to aid and prepare her in the life ahead—but what I can do, I will do, to the fullest.”

She locked eyes with him for a full beat. His expression softened—just as she expected it to.

The man might not be as vain or easily flattered as she’d hoped, but she better understood his weaknesses now. Idealism, and vulnerability. The former she’d learned at dinner tonight. The latter she’d suspected, since the last few moments of their first encounter, when she’d chosen to be honest about her reasons for choosing him over a Cintran journalist.

She could lead him by the nose, wherever she wanted, as long as she let her eyes go big and soft, as long as she feigned impassioned sincerity in the name of motherhood. He’d melt like butter and swallow any lie she fed him.

“I understand, your highness,” he returned simply. There was a quiet acceptance to his tone that only solidified her suspicions.

Yes, she imagined he did understand. Or at least he understood what she wanted him to.

“You have nothing to fear, on that count,” he added. His hand went to his heart, and she knew that (unlike her) he was being utterly sincere. “I—I hedged because it felt odd, using such terms for a child I had only just met—and yes, I know she is an adult, but she is…so young. She reminds me of my niece. And I thought of how I would feel, hearing some half-stranger refer to her as such. I was trying to be respectful, not…disingenuously trying to hide some kind of attraction to her.”

Now it was her turn to say, “I understand.”

And she did. She truly did.

“That’s all, Mr. Tuirseach.”

A brief flash of irritation and confusion rippled over his features at the abrupt dismissal, but he simply bowed again, formally taking his leave. Calanthe merely enjoyed the view.

A few moments later, Alcise reappeared.

“Everything alright?” Her voice was gentle as ever, tinged with concern.

“Quite,” Calanthe decreed. She grabbed the papers from her outbox and handed them to her lady. “How was dinner, after I left?”

“Mr. Moussek seems far more at-ease, though you’d have to get a full report from my sister. Mr. Tuirseach is a thoroughly fascinating man, extremely well-read—though I suppose that’s a bit of his princely education—”

“He didn’t go to university,” Calanthe corrected.

Alcise blinked at that. Calanthe continued, “He…was fully enlisted in the Royal Navy, opted not to take time off to go to school.”

“Quite impressive,” Alcise decided. Calanthe shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“And what do you think of him?” There was something almost teasing in her lady’s tone.

Calanthe leveled a dead-eyed stare at her. “I think it will be all we can do to keep him on track and focused on the right story.”

Alcise’s smile faded. She nodded slightly. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re rather correct on that one, madame.”

“How can someone be both exactly what we need and entirely what we don’t want?” Calanthe mused.

“Fate’s a right bastard, I suppose,” Alcise intoned. Calanthe huffed at that.

“Indeed.”

“Shall I walk with you to your chambers, madame?”

Calanthe smiled at her. “I’m perfectly capable of making it on my own—besides, I have a feeling you may have to go back and drag Visindra away from her wine.”

Alcise moaned lightly at that, eyes flicking heavenwards, “Mother of mine, my duties are never done.”

“You swore the oath, with full knowledge and without hesitation.”

“I was young. A fool. I have since paid for my crimes, a thousand times over.” Despite her words, Alcise’s tone was tinged with a playful warmth.

She opened the door for the queen, who breezed through. The two reporters were long gone, already guided back to their own rooms by another staff member. Alcise clutched her paperwork in one hand, using the free one to lightly pat Calanthe’s shoulder as they walked down the hall.

“Just two weeks,” she reminded her queen.

Calanthe gave a heavy sigh. “Just two weeks.”

“By the by—did you read Renfri’s report, from this morning?”

Calanthe rolled her eyes. “You know I did.”

“And what, exactly, are you going to do about it?”

“The usual,” Calanthe informed her. “Ignore it until it actually becomes a problem, hopefully one far beyond my control.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted, madame. Here’s wishing you a pleasant rest.”

That was Alcise-speak for _you’re being a cranky bitch, go to bed_.

Calanthe smirked wryly at that. “Til the morrow, my good lady.”

“Til the morrow, my good queen.” Alcise disappeared into a side door, most likely heading to her own office to finish whatever tasks her paperwork required. Calanthe continued on, hearing the soft, reassuring footsteps of Danek behind her.

She still felt a bit off-kilter, a bit unbalanced from her final interaction with Eist Tuirseach. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d wanted from the exchange, but she got the distinct feeling that whatever it was, she didn’t get it.

She’d wanted a reassurance that his admiration for her daughter didn’t extend into anything…untoward. And he’d given it, most sincerely.

She’d wanted to know for sure that she could manipulate him, even after she pushed him to such anger. And he’d proven that, almost too easily.

So what else could she have wanted?

For him to step just a little bit closer? To deny the accusations of the young…whatever she was? To declare that no, he quite preferred women his own age? To maybe…look at her a certain way, when he did make such a declaration?

Fuckity-fuck-fuck. He was trouble. She was _in_ trouble.

 _Faults_ , she reminded herself. He had them—currently it was simply an over-developed sense of hopeful idealism, which made him vulnerable, easily manipulated.

While she enjoyed adversaries who were easily managed, it wasn’t a trait she looked for in a lover. Not that he could ever be that, anyways.

 _And a good thing, too,_ she decided, slipping out of her heels before mounting the stairs (it was too late and she was too tired to put that much strain on her legs). _What could I possibly gain from a man who gets starry-eyed over preserving old wives’ tales and spends his time chasing women half his age?_

Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

She kept her heels off as she pushed her way down the upper corridor, decidedly feeling relieved that she’d dodged whatever bullet he might have been, in any other situation.

Yes. Relieved. Most certainly. Absolutely relieved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental Casting Note: For Hille, I always picture the indomitable Amelia Bullmore. For Alcise, it's the wonderful Raquel Cassidy.
> 
> Also: the bit about Skelligen knitting patterns is a bit of a nod to (most likely untrue) stories of Aran knitting patterns. Why you need to know this, I'm not rightly sure. But there you go. Look at you, learning something new today. You go, you.


	7. Six Kinds of Crazy

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

If dinner had been an informal affair, breakfast was even more so. The queen’s private dining room had a wall lined with sideboards, which was turned into a buffet. By the time Eist and Mousesack arrived, guided by Triss, the only two people seated were Pavetta and Duny, already halfway finished.

“Good morning.” the princess greeted them with a warm smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a king, quite literally, your highness,” Mousesack informed her. This earned him a grin. Eist looked over at his friend with an expression of mild surprise. So the crusty old vagabond was adjusting to the pampered life after all.

Once Eist took his seat, he glanced at the head of the table, which was currently empty.

“You’ll never see Mother at breakfast,” Pavetta spoke, apparently reading his thoughts.

Duny hummed in agreement. “She awakes before the dawn—by the time the rest of us are up and about, she’s halfway through her day.”

“Sleep is not the luxury of queens and kings,” Pavetta pointed out, directing it a bit at her fiancé, though her tone stayed neutral and pleasant, as always.

“All the more reason that I am quite glad to have given up all chances for the crown,” Eist admitted with an easy smile.

“Mind yourself,” warned Hille, who’d silently slipped into the room (sneaking up on them yet again, the woman was like a cat, Eist thought). She poured herself some coffee. “We can’t have you giving our princess any ideas—we don’t have any spares, unlike your family did.”

He chuckled at that. Hille smiled, never looking up from doctoring her cuppa. She raised her voice, “Lady Merigold, you have the itinerary for the day?”

“I do,” Triss nodded, setting down her fork to pick up the grey manila folder imprinted with a navy outline of the Cintran crest. She was currently seated in Visindra’s seat from last night, which put her at Pavetta’s right-hand side—she slid a piece of paper towards the princess, who leaned in to scan over it, before giving a quick nod of approval.

Pavetta looked up at Eist and Mousesack with a smile. “Well, gentlemen, prepare to make history. You’re about to be the first journalists to ever witness a royal declaration of intent.”

* * *

**The Queen’s Council Chambers, Cintra.**

The princess and her fiancé stood against a wall in the corridor, quietly waiting to be officially announced. They’d been here for nearly half an hour, and the wait had not improved the nerves that Mousesack could feel radiating off them, from the moment they’d all gotten into the long, sleek SUV.

Hille, who was currently waiting patiently alongside Mousesack, had explained the process to him and Eist, after Pavetta and Duny had left the breakfast table. They would arrive, then the Queen’s Council—fifty of the nation’s highest born nobles, who advised the queen and oversaw the functions of the Liegeman’s Council, the larger body of nobles and legislators—would convene, and then vote to hear the princess’ suit. She and Duny would then be called into the council chambers, where Pavetta would give a short speech, declaring her intention to wed Duny Urcheon in good faith, and to uphold the vows she would make, as dearly as she would uphold her duties to her crown and country. The Right Honorable Lord Stregobor, chamberlain and head of the council, would then read a notice from the queen herself, after which there would be another vote. If the vote carried, the council would officially give their blessing on the union, and swear to protect it as valiantly as they did their country.

A lot of fucking hullaballoo, just to get hitched, Mousesack thought. He could see why Eist had left that life.

He glanced over at his friend. Last night, Eist had practically blown out of the queen’s office with a face like a thunderhead. He still hadn’t said what had happened, when it was just him and the queen in the room. Halfway back to their rooms, he’d suddenly given a frustrated ripple of laughter, shaking his head softly. _She’s audacious, I’ll give her that_ , he’d said, and that was all. Mousesack had gotten the feeling that it was about to be the longest two weeks of his life. He was also mildly surprised to realize that for perhaps the first time ever, Eist Tuirseach had come across a woman that he couldn’t charm (sometimes it took a bit, but eventually he always overcame…but this time, Mousesack got the feeling history would not repeat itself). So at least the longest two weeks might also be the most interesting.

Currently, Eist was leaned against the opposite wall, watching the young couple with idle curiosity—except it wasn’t idle, it never was with him. He could look entirely bored, but his mind was always churning, noting little things that hardly anyone else saw. Occasionally, he glanced towards the door to the council chambers. It was a small side door, but for whatever reason, it was the one Pavetta would enter through. Currently, it was cracked open slightly. Before the council had arrived, Pavetta had opened it fully, pointing to where she’d stand, where Duny would be, et cetera—so that Mousesack would know how to best set up his shots.

As non-Cintrans who had not been formally invited into chambers by the council, Eist and Mousesack couldn’t actually set foot inside. While the council was aware—and had approved their presence here today—they did not wish to have the proceedings marred by reporters scurrying around the room.

Mousesack preferred it this way. Subjects always photographed better, when they didn’t know they were being photographed.

That’s why he’d rigged his camera to not make the iconic shuttering sound, when he took photos. It had taken a helluva lot of tinkering (and three destroyed cameras, may they rest in peace…or rather, in pieces) to figure it out, but it had been worth it.

He slowly sank to his knees, raising his camera and adjusting his focus. The young couple, still looking towards the door, didn’t notice him. He quickly snapped a few shots of them, standing side by side, their hands tightly clasped together. It was a good shot, even before he edited it, he knew. The queen would be pleased—not that he worried too much about her opinion, mind you.

Still, he glanced over at Hille, who was watching with a soft smile of approval.

The council was called to session. Pavetta stood up straighter, still clutching Duny’s right hand with her left—and now her right hand came to hold the crook of his elbow, as if seeking further support.

Eist noted the little action, the way her body seemed to shake without actually shaking at all. Her knees were locked and her jaw was equally tight, her eyes fixed on that small crack in the door as if her life depended on it.

It did, in a way, he supposed.

Not for the first time, he mused at the oddity of the queen’s absence. She had not even come to wish Pavetta well, before they left. At least to his knowledge. Sure, Hille was here, but more as a guide, making sure everyone was fully aware of their roles and following them properly. She certainly wasn’t the type for emotional support, that much was certain. She reminded him of his childhood governess: strict, but fair, and emotionally immovable.

He thought about the queen’s words at dinner, last night _: Coddling is often confused as kindness, when in reality, it is a far greater cruelty._ Was that the reason for her absence—she was afraid of coddling her daughter?

He also thought about her words after dinner, when she’d pulled him aside for a private chat. He still felt a flash of anger at the memory. Anger on multiple levels—she didn’t have any right, digging that deeply into his life, security check or not, and she had no right to suspect him of such impropriety towards her daughter, and she certainly had no right to be an absolute brat while proclaiming such suspicions.

And yet, in an odd way, he’d understood. Her intent was from a place of good—the _execution_ of that intent, through her words and actions, was the part that needed work.

Not that he expected it to actually change. She was firmly set in her ways, he could tell. He’d always held a fondness for fierce, ballsy women, but ye gods, she was the absolute cherry atop the cake of audacity.

Again, his mind flashed back to the moment that she’d pulled rank with such unrepentant pettiness, the way she’d waited until he acknowledged it, the way her brow arched and her lips smirked when he called her by her title. Truth be told, his mind had replayed that moment more than once, over the past twelve-plus hours. It was absolutely infuriating…and a bit hot.

It was the second part of that truth that bothered him.

The vote concluded, and the door opened. With one last exchange of breathless smiles, Pavetta and Duny entered the chamber, hand in hand. Hille stepped forward as well, gently taking a place next to the edge of the doorframe to get a better view. Likewise, Mousesack came to crouch in the doorway, camera poised and ready.

Eist moved closer as well, his heart beginning to pace nervously for the young girl at the center of the council chamber.

Pavetta smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, suddenly looking even smaller, even younger. The room seemed to swallow her—it was a large oval, with tiered rows of lords and ladies rising up like an amphitheater. At the center was an ornate gold lectern, where Pavetta would stand, facing the Lord Chamberlain’s seat.

Yet she stepped up to the lectern with a sense of determination, her shoulders squared as she braced her hands on the edge of the flat top.

“My good....” Her voice was small, shaky. But the acoustics of the room still carried it. She dipped her head, pressed her lips into a thin line (and _there_ , for the first time, Eist noted a physical resemblance to her mother). Then she lifted her chin and began again, in a clearer, stronger voice. “My good members of the Most Honorable Council, I come before you today to declare my intention to take Sir Duny, Lord of Erlenwald, as my husband and consort. I seek your blessing upon this union, and all that shall follow from it.”

Hille gave a small curt nod, silently approving the princess’ efforts. Eist could see from her smile that she was quite pleased.

Lord Stregobor leaned forward in his seat, high atop the Lord Chamberlain’s perch. His face remained fixed in what should have been a pleasant, genial expression, except there was no warmth behind it. In a tone tinged with a knowing coyness, he asked, “And is the good sir of virtuous birth?”

Eist disliked him immediately. Hille had told them beforehand that there would be a series of questions asked and answered, as part of the ritual. The question of virtuous birth was meant to keep bastards from becoming kings or queens—but Eist got the feeling that in this case, Stregobor was referring to Duny’s status as a common man, rather than the esteemed noble that Pavetta should be marrying, in theory.

“He is.” Pavetta answered without batting an eye. Still, her brows furrowed slightly. She was more her mother’s child than Eist had realized.

“Does he also enter into this union with clear conscience and good intent?”

“I do, my lord,” Duny spoke for himself this time, as was expected. His hands were clasped in front of him, right hand wrapped tightly around left wrist. Pavetta turned to give him a slight smile. Eist saw his grip relax, slightly.

There were a few more questions, followed by answers. Then the Lord Chamberlain decreed the council would vote upon the matter—though first, they must hear a word from the queen.

A mild commotion drew everyone’s attention to the main entrance to the council chamber. Beside Eist, Hille frowned, craning her neck slightly to see what was going on.

The herald stepped forward, loudly proclaiming, “Her Grace, the Duchess of Beauclair, by order of the Queen!”

To Eist’s surprise, Visindra Tirre appeared, wearing a rather pleased expression as she clipped her way towards the lectern at the center of the chamber. Instead of her usual sheath dress and sweater combination, she wore a skirt and jacket of Cintran Cerulean, the left shoulder embroidered with the three golden lions of the royal crest. Her hair, for once, was in a sleek, tidy bun, and her hands were in stark white wrist-length gloves.

She stopped just before reaching the lectern, giving a quick, perfunctory bow towards the Lord Chamberlain, who acknowledged her with a wave of his hand.

_Beauclair_. Eist suddenly understood why she didn’t look like a member of the Cintran royal line—because she wasn’t Cintran at all. As the Duchess of Beauclair, she was the highest-ranking member of Toussaint, once an independent vassal state to the east, past the Amell mountains.

But she was a duchess without a duchy, and had been for most of her life, he realized—Toussaint had been invaded by Nilfgaard, over forty years ago.

There was a story, Eist thought. For now, he focused on her obviously-unplanned arrival.

“I come on behalf of Her Royal Highness Calanthe, Queen of Cintra and Sodden, Lioness of the House Raven, Ard Rhena.” She raised her voice, silencing the murmuring that had begun at the announcement of her arrival. “At the Right Honorable Lord Stregobor’s pleasure, I deliver her majesty’s blessing upon today’s suit.”

Eist realized that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like the Lord Chamberlain. Visindra had not lost her charming smile since she’d entered the room, but her nose had not scrunched even once.

“It is customary for the Lord Chamberlain to read the Queen’s blessing,” he pointed out.

Visindra gave a curt nod, “It is, your lordship. But I have been charged by my queen. And we all know how she favors those who do not complete their charges.”

She spared a knowing, almost playful look around the chamber, which rippled with light chuckles. Then she turned her gaze back to the Lord Chamberlain, “I do humbly ask leave to speak before this council, at the behest of my queen.”

A slight motion in Eist’s periphery caught his attention again—Hille, lightly bringing her hand up to her throat. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, bottom lip between her teeth.

After a beat, the Lord Chamberlain spoke. “We do all serve at the pleasure of our…delightfully unorthodox queen.”

He somehow sounded both thoroughly exasperated and too bored to care. He waved Visindra on, “You may present her royal highness’ blessing before the chamber, as it please her.”

She ducked her head in a slight show of gratitude. Eist felt Hille slowly exhale.

Pavetta shifted closer to Duny, allowing Visindra to fully step up to the lectern. She broke the seal on the letter in her hand, slipping a pair of reading glasses from her jacket pocket and sparing a moment to glance at Pavetta and smile.

Then, she began to read.

“Even before the hour of her birth, our princess has held our love and our hope for a brighter future. And since the hour of her birth, she has only increased those items in growing measure, with every passing moment of every passing day. This nation is built upon a foundation of kings and queens whose determination, dedication, intelligence, and empathy have turned Cintra into the jewel of the nations, the force of the continent, and the leader of the world.”

A few councilors clapped in appreciative agreement. Eist rolled his eyes at the blatant and pompous sense of nationalism.

“It is our greatest source of pride and triumph, knowing that this legacy not only continues in our princess, but will strengthen and expand beyond all measure—not only through her reign, but through the legacy her children will create in turn.”

Pavetta was blinking rapidly, the glisten in her eyes notable even at a distance.

“Her Royal Highness Pavetta, Princess of Cintra, Duchess of Sodden, is a young woman of incomparable mind and will, who knows full well the measure of her heart and possesses the intellect to choose its keeper carefully. She has declared and chosen Duny, Lord Urcheon, as her consort and companion in building this legacy—and we seek that none should hold her from it. It is in full faith and love that we give our blessing upon this union.”

Visindra looked back at Pavetta again with a wide smile.

This time, her nose scrunched.

“We urge the Most Honorable Council to accept and defend this union with as much fervor and devotion as our own heart—the heart not only of a lioness, but also of a mother blessed with so rich a gift as this daughter. Upon this day we do set our seal, in approval hereafter.”

Applause rippled through the chamber. Visindra kept her gaze on Pavetta, who was valiantly keeping tears at bay as she smiled, clasping Duny’s hand for dear life.

Eist had to admit, he was impressed. The queen could pull a nice turn of phrase, when she put her mind to it.

“Right honorable members of council,” the Lord Chamberlain drawled, obviously not as moved as some. “Let us put to a vote.”

It carried, unanimously.

Since she was not a member of the Queen’s Council, Visindra was escorted out again, as the vote began. A minute later, she appeared at the end of the hall, clipping her way towards Mousesack, Eist, and Hille.

“Well done, aye,” Hill breathed, obviously still a bit thrown by the whole thing.

“Anything for our girl,” Visindra smiled. She tucked the queen’s letter under her arm and removed her gloves. Her hand were shaking, Eist noted—though they hadn’t trembled in the slightest when she’d been at the lectern.

Visindra wrapped her arm around Hille’s shoulders and they leaned in, turning their attention back to the chamber, where Lord Stregobor was busy decreeing the results and wishing the young couple a long and prosperous union.

Visindra squeezed Hille a little tighter—both women’s sense of joy and relief was palpable.

Pavetta made one last statement, thanking the council for their time and consideration. Then she and Duny headed back to the side door.

Mousesack got several good shots of the queen’s ladies greeting the returning couple, smiles and hugs all around.

Pavetta held onto Visindra just a bit longer. The duchess stroked the girl’s head, murmuring something so low that only Pavetta could hear before kissing the top of her head.

She loved Pavetta like a daughter, Eist realized. And Pavetta adored her with equal ferocity and devotion.

“Right-o,” Visindra stepped back, keeping both hands on Pavetta’s shoulders. “Shall we head back for lunch? Nerves always leave me absolutely ravenous.”

Duny and Pavetta made sounds of agreement—they’d barely touched their breakfasts, due to nerves—and Hille directed everyone back down the hallway, to the covered portico at the back of the building where their cars waited.

Eist sidled up to Visindra as they walked along, keeping his voice low as he noted, “You weren’t on our itinerary for the day.”

“Her Royal Highness is well-known for her deviations from societal expectations,” Visindra returned diplomatically.

Eist hummed at that. They exited the building, coming to the sidewalk where the others waited for the car to pull up. He wondered aloud, “Why this deviation, in particular?”

Visindra stopped, looking at him fully for a beat, as if mystified that he should even have to ask. “Those words were written in love. It was the queen’s wish that they be delivered in love, as well.”

A flash of insight flooded his brain—Calanthe could not be there to give the blessing herself, because it would have been too large of a breach in protocol (Hille had explained that the queen could only attend the council at their express invitation, as a sign of respect and a symbol of the balance in powers between the two bodies). So she’d sent the next best thing—the woman who loved her daughter just as deeply.

Visindra’s affection for the princess had been clear, almost from the beginning. Eist could look back at their first interview, at the way Visindra smiled and glowed when speaking about Pavetta. And the way they’d held each other, in the hallway, just a few minutes earlier. She was, in some strange way, part of their family. And Calanthe had wanted this blessing given by someone whose import in Pavetta’s life would give her words the impact and meaning they deserved.

Again, Eist was struck by the dichotomy of this queen and her actions. How tradition was both circumvented and upheld, for the same reasons.

A member of the security detail opened the door to the SUV. Pavetta turned back to Visindra with a smile that outshone the sun.

_She loves her daughter, very much._ Bran’s comment from their discussion six months ago echoed in his head. And while he’d seen hints of it, in his interactions with the queen, he hadn’t quite understood the depth of it, until now.

This queen didn’t coddle, but oh how she loved.

“Ride with me.” Visindra patted his chest with the back of her hand, slipping past the others and moving towards the sleek black sedan that pulled up behind the SUV.

Eist followed, making a quick motion to grab Mousesack’s attention and indicate that he was going with Visindra. The photojournalist merely lifted his eyebrows and climbed into the SUV.

“The Duchess of Beauclair,” Eist commented, once they were alone inside the car.

Visindra pressed her lips into an almost-exasperated smile. “I knew you’d catch that. The queen was right, you’re far too bright.”

“She said that?” He felt an odd prick of delight at the thought.

Visindra looked at him fully. “If you ever tell her, I will deny and denounce you til my dying breath.”

He chuckled at that. “Understood.”

He felt an urge to ask what else the queen had said about him, but wisely refrained. Instead, he quietly asked, “You couldn’t have been very old, when you had to leave Toussaint.”

“Six,” she admitted. With a wry, mirthless smile, she added, “We were overthrown the year Calanthe was born.”

So she was Sibba’s age, he noted.

“King Dagorad—Calanthe’s father—gave my family safe conduct into Sodden. My own father died there, still absolutely convinced that we would return to Toussaint in a blaze of glory.” She looked out the window, softly shaking her head. “I spent my entire childhood and teen years, preparing to rule over a duchy that I would never set foot in, ever again.”

“Do you miss it?” He asked gently.

She made a face. “You cannot miss what you barely remember. And I remember far less of my early childhood than most. Apparently, the stress and terror of fleeing for your life puts a damper on the brain’s ability to process and store memories.”

Then, with a slight sniff, she added, “Besides, I certainly wouldn’t want to be there now.”

He didn’t blame her. Nilfgaard’s conquered territories weren’t known for their quality of life.

“It was Calanthe who insisted I keep my title,” Visindra admitted. Her gaze stayed firmly focused out the window. “Said it was my birthright. Even if I never set foot upon the land, it was mine. As mine as the blood in my veins.”

That sounded like a very Calanthe outlook, he thought.

“How did you become her lady-in-waiting?” He couldn’t help but be fascinated by the whole concept. As a foreigner, she should have never even been considered for the position.

Now Visindra turned to him with a smile. “There is a single point upon which myself and the good Lord Chamberlain agree: our queen is delightfully unorthodox. We met on a fox hunt, in Sodden. When it came time to select her ladies, she remembered me.”

“Must have been a memorable hunt.”

“And how,” Visindra hummed. “I was thrown from my horse. Broke my wrist and kept riding. She later told me that she’d admired my determination, and had hoped to learn from it, as a queen.”

Well, she certainly had, Eist mused. Wisely, he kept that thought unvoiced. Still, Visindra seemed to read his mind.

“I know she can be difficult,” she said quietly, almost regretfully. Her eyes fully locked onto Eist’s again. “But it is merely…a condition of her complexity.”

“A condition of her complexity?” Eist repeated, trying to unravel the meaning (truth be told, he also just rather liked the phrase--he'd definitely use that quote in his article on the queen).

“We are all products of our pasts,” she explained simply. “Some of us…have more obstacles to overcome, in the pursuit of our better selves.”

He tried to imagine what sort of obstacles a queen would have, that would be so difficult to overcome. Privilege and power shielded her from a world of ills and misfortunes—so why was Visindra speaking as if the queen has somehow been dealt such a bad hand?

She must have read his incredulity clearly enough, because she merely gave a wry smile. _You don’t understand. That’s alright._

She lightly patted his knee, then turned her gaze out the window again. She did not speak for the rest of the ride.

The lost prince and the ousted duchess, he thought. They made quite a pair.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

The queen did not attend lunch, nor dinner. Eist hoped this would not be norm for the next two weeks—after all, how could he gather enough fodder for his secondary piece on the queen, if he never saw her, never interacted nor observed her interactions with others? (Yes, that was his only reason for wanting to be in her presence, he told himself.)

After dinner, Visindra led them to the queen’s office—carrying a plate of blackberry cobbler, the evening’s dessert, which Eist found both odd and amusing. Hille had informed everyone at dinner that Alcise and the queen were taking a working dinner in the queen’s office, which mean there was no need to bring them anything.

Once they arrived, Visindra knocked on the door and waited.

Alcise’s face appeared, looking a bit wan. But then she smiled, giving a low, huffing laugh at the sight of the pie.

“I knew you wouldn’t ask for it when you placed your dinner order, and you’d end up regretting it afterwards,” Visindra announced, brandishing a fork.

“Leave it to you to encourage my vices,” Alcise opened the door wider, ushering them in.

“Always,” Visindra promised, tone lightly teasing. She breezed in far enough to clear the doorway before giving a quick, almost thoughtless bow to her queen. Eist and Mousesack followed suit, though the woman hadn’t acknowledged them in the slightest. She was seated at her desk, staring almost dazedly as the laptop in front of her.

“Good sirs,” she drawled in greeting, still half distracted and not bothering to look up.

“Your highness.” Eist made sure to keep his tone perfectly cordial. He’d told her that he was a professional, last night. He planned to prove it—to show that he wasn’t affected in the least by last night’s accusations, that all was well between them (and maybe also that she wouldn’t win, wouldn’t get the better of him, that he could rise above).

Visindra handed the dessert and fork to Alcise, who disappeared into the outer office. The duchess motioned for Eist and Mousesack to sit in the two chairs positioned before the queen’s desk, as she moved around to stand behind the queen’s left shoulder.

“No doubt you enjoyed today’s thrilling glimpse into Cintran parliamentary procedure,” Calanthe looked up for the first time, expression completely deadpan.

“No doubt,” Eist echoed. Then, with an air of feigned chagrin, he placed his hand over his chest, quietly adding, “Your highness.”

Her brows lifted at that, the corner of her mouth twisting into a smile of mild surprise.

He thought again of last night. Realized he was beginning to look on it differently. Wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“May we see today’s photos?” She turned her attention to Mousesack. Eist noted the…almost respectful tone she used with him. She was genuinely asking permission, he realized.

“Of course, your highness,” Mousesack opened his camera, ejecting the memory card and placing it in her outstretched hand.

She inserted it into her laptop, clicking a few times to pull up the photos. Visindra leaned in to look as well.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” the duchess breathed.

The queen merely hummed. Still, Eist could tell she was pleased. Her eyes, he was beginning to learn—her eyes gave her away.

She tilted her head back slightly, putting a little more distance between herself and the laptop as she looked at the photos. Almost as if afraid of seeing something she wouldn’t like.

“Damn,” Visindra decreed after a few minutes of silence. “That skirt really does wonders for my arse.”

Calanthe’s gaze flicked heavenwards, briefly. “As much as I hate to deprive my good lady a chance to show off her assets, I must ask that the photos of Visindra reading the queen’s blessing be deleted.”

Noting the two men’s slight confusion, she explained, “The Queen’s Council records hold no mention of her attendance, nor will they ever. It is important to understand that sometimes, we must avoid the appearance of being…quite as tenacious as we are.”

Eist wondered what other historical records of the queen’s reign did not match the actual event.

She must have read his expression easily enough, because she quietly added, “I myself am…not known for being the best at following rules, and as such, it had not entirely endeared me to the nobility. I do not want that stain to follow Pavetta into her reign.”

“Surely people would realize this was your action, not hers,” Eist pointed out. Honestly, he didn’t much care—there would be limited photo space, compared to all the shots Mousesack would get over the next two weeks, and Visindra’s photos, while nice, were not the kind that made readers stop and look twice. But he still felt a need to debate, just for the fun of it (fun, was he really considering this fun, what was wrong with him?).

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” The queen drawled, wryly amused. “Unfortunately, nobility and thinking don’t always coexist. Particularly not when they’re looking for reasons to be upset.”

“Why do you think they’d look for reasons to be upset at the princess?” He asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged. “It happens to us all, at some point. I know I shan’t be able to prevent it from happening, but I can head off as many instances at the pass as I can.”

She turned the laptop around, sliding it towards Mousesack. Obviously, she was expecting him to delete the photos, rather than doing it herself.

Again, Eist was struck with how respectful the action seemed, in that moment.

Mousesack complied, then gently pushed the laptop back towards the queen. She turned it around again, and the two women continued through the rest of the photos.

Eist could tell when they’d reached the ones of Hille and Visindra greeting Pavetta and Duny in the hallway again. Visindra was grinning warmly—even the queen cracked a smile.

It was the softest, smallest smile, and yet, it changed her completely, Eist thought. She seemed to glow.

Then she shifted, resuming her mask of efficient and unaffected monarch. She deftly ejected the memory card, handing it back to Mousesack, “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time and cooperation.”

That was it, then, Eist realized. Visindra was moving around the desk again, lightly motioning for them to follow her. The queen went back to whatever she’d been doing before, propping her cheek against her fist as she concentrated on her laptop screen.

Eist couldn’t stop himself from turning back one last time, quietly offering, “Good night, your majesty.”

“Wha—oh.” She sat up slightly, turning her head to him in a dazed fashion. “Yes. Of course. Good night to you both, good sirs.”

As he slipped into the outer office, Eist realized that he actually would have preferred to end their meeting with an interaction like last night’s, rather than this flat and sparkless moment.

He also realized he must be six kinds of crazy, wishing for such a thing.

That didn’t stop him from wishing, all the same.


	8. ::Royal Press Release/Excerpt from Fashion Forward Magazine::

**ROYAL PRESS RELEASE:: Queen’s Council Issues Blessing for the Marriage of Her Royal Highness Pavetta Fiona Elen, Princess of Cintra, and Duny, Lord Urcheon.**

Earlier this morning, the Queen’s Council voted unanimously in favor of the union between Her Royal Highness Princess Pavetta Fiona Elen of Cintra, Duchess of Sodden, and Duny Urcheon, Lord of Erlenwald, after receiving a formal declaration of intent from the Princess, followed by a reading of the Queen’s blessing by the Right Honorable Lord Chamberlain, Lord Stregobor.

With the blessing of the Council, the public banns will now be read at two o’clock in the afternoon tomorrow, at the High Steps of the Temple of Modron.

* * *

** From This Week’s Edition of Fashion Forward Magazine **

_Fashion Week in Nostrag: What’s Hot and What’s Not_

**_Hot:_** _The Continental Post’s_ Sabrina Glevissig, rocking the perfect beach waves with her Kida Mokitari romper and Didiaro stillettos at the Fifteenth Annual Nostrag Summer Fashion Watch’s opening night party. The blonde beauty (and host of this year’s watch) will soon be trading her romper for something more regal—Glevissig will be hosting a live stream of the royal wedding in Cintra later this month. [ _Photo by Ysil Norruk, Verden Daily Press_ ]

**_Not_** : Rhys Verron’s mis-matched patterns and off-kilter color scheme. Oh, Rhys, what were you thinking?! This attempt at high fashion ended up looking a bit too high comedy instead. Here’s hoping the popular DJ can reclaim his dapper dresser creds throughout the rest of fashion week. [ _Photo by Visillia Lynde, Nostrag News_ ]


	9. The Eyes Have It

**Nostrag, Verden.**

Yennefer read the article and rolled her eyes. Great. As if Sabrina needed any help with her insufferable ego.

To make matters worse, Yennefer was dead-certain she’d run into the woman again soon—Sabrina was apparently staying at the same hotel where the Lyrian chancellor and Verdenian contractors kept meeting, which meant Yennefer was constantly staking it out as well.

For two whole days, she was lucky. But Yennefer Vengerberg had long learned that luck never hung around her for long.

Part of her had wanted to dress a little nicer, knowing that she’d run into Sabrina and her scrutiny again—but she also knew that Sabrina would notice, Sabrina would know it was because of her, Sabrina would be coy and smug and even more insufferable. So she kept to her unimpressive don’t-notice-me-I’m-just-a-random-tourist wardrobe, half-freezing as she sat at a table in the hotel’s restaurant, idly nursing an iced tea and occasionally nibbling on truffle fries.

Like a missile of misery, set to seek out signatures of irritation rather than heat, Sabrina almost instantly found her, the second she entered the lobby. She swanned over, removing a ridiculously-large sun hat and offering Yennefer an air kiss from three feet away. She wanted to look charming, obviously, but still didn’t want to actually touch Yennefer.

Yennefer was quite happy with that.

“Are you stalking me, Vengerberg?” Sabrina teased as she took a seat (though Yennefer hadn’t invited her to sit).

Yennefer merely pulled her lips back into a smile, though she made absolutely no effort to even attempt to make it look friendly or genuine.

Sabrina faltered a bit, obviously thrown off by Yennefer’s lack of verbal response. She shifted in her seat, nodding towards Yennefer’s iced tea. “Would you like to trade that for something a little harder?”

“Can’t. I’m currently on the job.”

“Are you?” Sabrina looked around curiously, trying to figure out who or what was Yennefer’s target.

With a ripple of irritation, Yennefer realized the woman was more than quick enough to figure it out, if the chancellor came by. So she opted for distraction. “I hear you’re covering the royal wedding in Cintra. Congrats.”

The blonde flushed delightedly at that. “Yeah, I’m actually going to hit the shops along the riviera, once this bit is wrapped. See if I can find anything appropriately stunning enough for such an occasion.”

Yennefer smiled at the thought. Given Sabrina’s past red-carpet looks, _appropriate_ wasn’t really the adjective the blonde went for, when choosing them. However, she merely suggested, “Try Lyria. Everyone forgets them because they’re so far east, and so damn cold most of the year—but the capitol’s fashion district is worth the trip alone.”

There was something delicate in the way Sabrina pretended to consider the suggestion—no doubt she found it hard to take any form of fashion advice from Yennefer, but for once, she was trying to be tactful about it. Then with a slight shrug, she said, “I have half a mind to wear something atrocious, just to get back at Tissaia for assigning the _real_ story to Tuirseach instead of me.”

“Tuirseach?” Yennefer blinked at that. Eist Tuirseach had already been a legend at _The Post_ when Yennefer arrived eight years ago—he was practically a journalistic behemoth now. He also was the most down-to-earth, rough-and-tumble reporter she’d met while at the publication. The idea of him covering such a topic was jarring.

“Right?” Sabrina leaned in with a roll of her eyes. “I think it’s pureblood favoritism or some bullshit. But still.”

“What’s the real story?”

“Some…human interest piece on the princess bride-to-be. Her investiture happens that same week, so he’d doing this behind-the-scenes bit on the whole shebang.”

Yennefer’s intuition began to tingle. Still, she kept the conversation easy and light, letting Sabrina bitch about being overlooked in favor of a journalist who’d been covering some of the biggest political coups in the world since before she’d even hit puberty.

However, long after she left the table (and Sabrina’s presence, thank the gods), Yennefer’s mind picked at the odd little riddle.

Tissaia de Vries never did anything without absolute intention and certainty. Tuirseach was big guns—so why did she need that much ammunition for a princess puff piece?

There was something larger at play. Yennefer considered all the players on the board. Queen Calanthe was a bit of an enigma, press-wise. But one thing that had slipped past the royal iron curtain was the fact that she was an expert political strategist, and a skilled purveyor of public opinion.

The story had a political angle, that much Yennefer knew. It sounded like possible propaganda, the way Sabrina had banged on about it. Yes, _The Continental Post_ covered all happenings upon the continent, in terms of politics, science, religion, and history. It made absolute sense to have live coverage of the wedding—almost every news outlet on the continent would be following suit, she knew.

But a piece _specifically_ on the princess? A piece _being allowed_ by the infamously anti-press Queen Calanthe?

Tissaia had finally sold out, Yennefer realized. Finally deigned to play the dirty game of politics, for all her proselytizing on the necessity of unbiased reporting.

She suddenly knew just how she could prove herself—prove to Tissaia that she’d been right all those years ago, prove that while Tissaia might have sold out, she was still the one with moral certainty.

Unfortunately, it meant contacting Geralt. With a low sigh, she scanned through the contacts in her phone. Found the one labelled _Arsehole DO NOT ANSWER_. Hit the dial button. Took a deep breath and actually prayed he’d answer.

* * *

**The High Steps at the Temple of Modron, Cintra.**

For the second day in a row, the queen had been absent from breakfast, lunch, and Eist’s sight entirely. He tried not to think about it too much. Definitely tried not to think about why he was thinking about it so much—thinking about _her_ so much.

Currently, he was just outside the Temple of Modron, about twenty yards away from the top of the High Steps, where Pavetta and Duny stood side by side, next to the High Priest, who was giving a public reading of the banns.

Beside him, Hille leaned against the heavy stone wall, squinting a bit from the afternoon sun, even though they were in the shade. Triss stood next to her, watching raptly. Mousesack had wandered off a bit, trying to get a good shot.

In thirteen days, they’d all be here again, for the actual wedding. Eist had asked about the significance of the time frame. Hille had explained that thirteen was the number of completion in ancient Cintran numerology—the combination of seven, the number of perfection, and six, the number of imperfection. A symbolism of the traits found in the bond between lovers and partners: a perfect match for each other, while still being imperfect creatures with flaws that would need to be worked through, at various stages of their individual lives and their shared partnership.

For once, Eist liked the tradition. There was a sense of lyricism to it that he couldn’t deny.

There was a quite a crowd. Most were there simply to get a look at the elusive princess, Eist realized. He observed the expressions of the crowd—some entranced, some suspicious, some simply curious. He thought again of all the wild conspiracies he’d read. Wondered how many people here had read them—how many believed them.

Pavetta seemed even more ill-at-ease than she’d been whilst waiting to enter the Queen’s Council chambers—and this time, she didn’t even have to speak. She was pale, almost sickly looking. Her skin began to take on a slight sheen.

It was rather hot, Eist noted. And he was tucked under the shade, while Pavetta and Duny were in the direct sunlight, both in layers of full, formal dress. Quietly, he leaned over to Hille, “How much longer will this take?”

Hille gave a slight shrug, “To read the banns? Five minutes, tops, and that’s if he’s particularly long-winded. But there’s also…an expectation, on the couple’s part.”

“Expectation?”

Again, Hille made a slight gesture, as if at a loss. “The people have come to see her. There is…a dialogue, to be created.”

Then, in a wryer tone, she added, “Still, let’s hope it’s wrapped up before the poor girl loses her lunch all over the High Priest’s very expensive shoes.”

Eist hummed at that. So he wasn’t the only one to notice Pavetta’s pallor, which was getting worse by the second.

Duny noticed as well—as soon as the banns were read, he wrapped his arm around Pavetta’s waist and gently led her back to the royal entourage. Despite her passive physical acceptance of the action, Pavetta was obviously protesting verbally, once their backs were turned to the crowd and no one could see their faces. Eist couldn’t make out her words from a distance—but her irate expression was clear enough (again, she did look like her mother’s child, he thought).

Triss had a bottle of water at the ready. Pavetta took it with a quiet murmur of thanks before returning her attention to the diatribe she’d been directing at Duny.

“Now everyone’s going to talk about how aloof and unfriendly I am, for not staying to at least wave and—”

“Would you prefer them talking about how you fainted down the High Steps due to heat sickness?” Duny returned quickly, though not unkindly.

She pursed her lips at that.

Yes, the maternal resemblance was quite strong, Eist mused with a wry smirk.

Pavetta took another long swig of water. With a rather firm expression, she decreed, “It doesn’t matter. The damage is done now.”

Her words—and the certainty in which she uttered them—stayed with Eist, the rest of the day.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Once they arrived back at the palace, the Princess retired to her rooms until dinner.

It gave Eist the perfect excuse to go explore.

Granted, he may have led Triss and Hille to believe that he, too, would be staying in his rooms until dinner. And he may have intentionally kept his footsteps very quiet as he made his way down the hall, eventually finding his way out into the gardens behind the palace. He met a few people in passing along the way, but he’d long since learned that if you simply look as if you know where you’re going and as if you’re supposed to be going there, then most people won’t bother to give you a second glance.

It felt good, to simply be outside again, in some semblance of nature. His field work often kept him out and about in the elements, and when he was back home in Aretuza, he went hiking every weekend, with a few long walks through the park during the week. A few times a month he’d go sailing as well, relishing the sense of freedom that the open sea always provided. He hadn’t realized just how stir-crazy he’d begun to feel, constantly stuck indoors.

He’d been wandering for several minutes, admiring the various roses and jasmines that bloomed quite prodigiously throughout the maze of hedges, when a wry voice stopped him.

“I believe, Mr. Tuirseach, this would be considered a violation of our agreement.”

He stuttered to a stop, looking around to find exactly where the queen’s voice had come from. Then, in a gap in the hedges, he spotted her—seated on a wooden bench, arms outstretched across the back, legs out and crossed at the ankles. Her heels had been abandoned and her stockinged toes wiggled and flexed, as if happy to be free.

“I don’t believe I signed away my right to go for a walk,” he returned easily, stepping through the gap in the hedgerow. He looked around—this was a little alcove, created by four walls of ten-foot greenery. At each corner, a citrus tree grew, their fragrant blossoms only adding to the heaviness of the warm late-afternoon air.

On the other side of the hedge, he heard a light stirring.

“Stand down.” The queen raised her voice. “Did you not hear? I called to him first.”

There was a mumbled apology of sorts from the other side of the shrubbery. Eist merely raised his brows.

“New guy,” she informed him, with barely a blink. “Quite eager to defend queen and country, it seems.”

“Better to be overcautious than under prepared,” he pointed out, raising his voice just a bit, so perhaps the newest member of her majesty’s protective detail could hear.

She took a full beat to watch him.

“I can’t imagine that’s how you actually live your life,” she admitted with an oddly-feline sense of amusement.

He shrugged at that. “The advice I give and the actions I take are seldom the same thing.”

He found himself moving closer, just a bit. She was practically taking up the whole bench—there was no way he could sit without it being completely awkward, and she made no move to make room for him. There was something territorial about the stance, without being aggressive. She belonged here. He did not. A small, simple reminder that came across loud and clear.

Still, he wasn’t quite ready to retreat yet. Keeping his tone light and conversational, he remarked, “You know, I had expected you to be a bit more…involved in the process.”

She frowned slightly. “Why ever would you think that? It’s certainly not _my_ wedding, thank the gods. Once was more than enough.”

He felt a prickle of curiosity. He remembered her decree about not mentioning Roegner’s name—and here, he heard the same tinge of bitterness in her tone. He dared to ask, “No more nuptials for you, then?”

The corner of her mouth hooked into a wry, open-mouth grin. “I pride myself on not making the same mistake twice, good sir.”

“There’s a story in that,” he pointed out.

“One that will remain untold.” A hardness edged her tone. A warning and a threat. Then, switching gears with dizzying precision, she assumed a completely unaffected air, glancing over at her right hand, which flexed as she idly examined her fingernails, arm still fully-extended. “Speaking of stories you _should_ be telling—when can we expect to read at least the beginning of a first draft?”

He blinked quickly at that, reeling to catch up with her rapid-fire segue (he was becoming less surprised by them, though, he noted). “I’m still…finding my lead-in. Stories don’t just happen, they…build.”

She hummed, as if she understood. He was surprised that she didn’t press further.

The talk of writing reminded him: “You can be quite the wordsmith yourself, when you put your mind to it.”

She dipped her head and…blushed? His mind briefly short-circuited at the realization. Her lips were quirking and twisting, as if trying to hold back a smile and it was… _adorable?_

He surreptitiously glanced around the hedgerow, contemplating the likelihood of having stumbled into an alternate reality.

“I have spent my life writing speeches,” she pointed out, once her mouth was under better control. “Consummate bullshittery is part of the territory.”

“I didn’t hear an ounce of anything other than absolute sincerity,” he returned gently. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want her to hide under snark and sarcasm again, but he felt the urge, almost desperately. For a brief flash, he’d seen something else— _someone_ else—and it was fascinating.

She looked up at him again, eyes dancing with playful challenge. “Visindra is an excellent orator. I cannot be held accountable for what she infused into my message.”

He held his hands up in a gesture of defeat at that. _Alright, valid point._

She was smiling at him again, somehow both wolfish and warm. After a beat, she stated, “You sounded…disappointed, when you mentioned my lack of involvement. Do you miss my warm and welcoming personality already?”

He huffed in wry amusement at that, then realized he’d done so, loud enough for the queen to hear—he glanced up to find her grinning, thank the gods. Again, it was lopsided and open-mouthed and somehow dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” she reassured him, her tone honey-warm and tinged with teasing. “The infatuation will wear off, good sir. By the time this is all over, you’ll be quite glad to see the back of me.”

He thought back to six months ago, spying her retreating form down the corridor, those heels and that impossibly tight skirt. He didn’t mind viewing the back of her then—or now, his awful mind retorted.

Calanthe saw the quick flicker in his expression, her mind instantly curious as to what it meant. He merely gave a slight smirk again.

Fuck, he was delicious. He was in navy slacks and a light blue button-down that set his eyes ablaze, wrinkled from the long day. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows now ( _a tattoo_ , she noted, he had a tattoo, just below the bend of his elbow), and his hair was less put-together than it usually was when she saw him.

He looked like the kind of man who’d be down to fuck in a queen’s garden, she decided. And if he were anyone else, she could pull him into the nearest hedge and do just that.

But he wasn’t anyone else. He was entirely himself, and as such, entirely untouchable.

 _You always want what you can’t have_ , her inner voice sighed.

That’s all it was, she realized. Her attraction to him—it was simply because she knew that she couldn’t have him, and she’d spent an entire life learning that there were so few things she couldn’t have, if she pulled the right strings, made the right moves.

But no string nor move could make this possible.

What a terrible waste. He looked like wicked fun.

One very good aspect of her life in court was that she’d learned to put on a mask of supreme indifference while simultaneously getting lost in her own thoughts—she didn’t have to worry that he might see, that he might understand. Given his slightly quizzical expression, it was obvious that he didn’t.

“I’m afraid I’ve been out in the sun too long,” she decided aloud, shifting on the bench to slip into her heels again before rising to her feet. “I must take my leave. Please, do enjoy the gardens—but know that I am leaving one of my men to shadow you.”

He hummed at that, not sounding particularly surprised.

And Great Mother help her, she couldn’t resist. She brushed past him, stopping just as her shoulder was even with his, practically touching, looking up to dramatically intone, “I can’t have you finding where all the bodies are buried, after all.”

She overplayed it with a breathy finish, wide eyes, and a slight lift of her brows. He looked down at her, expression curling into warm amusement at her melodrama.

She could just rise up, just a bit, and kiss him, she thought idly. Or at least bite his bottom lip. Then his eyes fully met hers and her brain short-circuited for a flash, feeling a heat in her chest at the surprise of being absolutely seen.

She wasn’t sure how he did it. It was just a glance. Heaven knows she’d made eye contact with him before—maybe it was the closeness between them, the angle of their faces. Maybe it was the heat of the day, or the playful air they’d created in their conversation.

She tore her gaze away, willing herself to maintain a slow, steady pace as she walked off. It took her reeling brain a few minutes to realize why she’d been affected as she replayed every second of that last look, trying figure it out.

His pupils had been dilated, when he’d looked at her. Whatever this odd thing was, she wasn’t the only one feeling it. Her heart hammered at the thought.

No. This was not good at all. Something she couldn’t have, which wanted to be had by her, just as much as she wanted to have it.

She’d meant what she’d said, earlier: she prided herself on not making the same mistake twice.

* * *

**Aretuza, Thanedd Island.**

Tissaia shifted in her desk chair, idly casting her glance over the bullpen, fully visible thanks to the glass walls of her office (transparency in reporting, indeed). She checked the clock on her computer again, tapping her fingers against the ink blotter on her desk as she waited.

Eist Tuirseach wasn’t…the most punctual, with his check-in calls. Though he was better at it, on this particular assignment—mainly because he was in civilization with full cellphone service, and not in any form of imminent danger whatsoever.

Currently, he was only three minutes late. Not that Tissaia minded. She had no intention of leaving the office for quite a while.

There was a light sound of laughter, and a small group of correspondents wove through the maze of desks, towards the elevators.

Out for drinks, she knew. Vilgefortz Roggeveen had returned from his latest field assignment, and most of the staff were excited to see him. Not that Tissaia blamed them—he was as good-natured as he was good-looking, if that was your sort of thing.

At the back of the group, Vanielle stopped, taking a beat to glance over and meet Tissaia’s gaze through the glass.

Tissaia gave a small smile of reassurance, and an even smaller nod. Vanielle smiled as well, fingers giving a little ripple of farewell for the evening.

It’d be a while before she was back in Tissaia’s bed, she knew. That was part of their arrangement—the ability to seek pleasure outside their relationship, from time to time. The understanding that their commitment to each other wasn’t a confinement, or even eternally concrete. When Vilgefortz was around, Vanielle was generally with him. While she may still spend a night here or there with Tissaia, it wasn’t until after a round of health checks ensuring that neither she nor her other partner had anything that could later be transmitted. Vanielle was a conscientious free-lover, and Tissaia appreciated it.

She also appreciated having a bit more time to herself, truth be told. She’d always been a bit like a cat—seeking affection when it suited her, and slinking off when it didn’t. Vanielle had lasted longer than most of her flings because the woman hadn’t been offended whenever Tissaia needed to retreat into her own head for a few days. She gave Tissaia space to simply be.

And Tissaia could give her the same in return. She watched the woman disappear into the elevator, laughing lightly at some quip Vilgefortz made. The doors closed, the bullpen fell silent again, and Tissaia returned to her waiting.

The phone at her desk rang.

Four minutes late. For Tuirseach, that was akin to calling fifteen minutes early.

“Another grueling day in the trenches?” She didn’t bother with pleasantries and greetings. Neither of them was that kind of person.

He chuckled softly at that. “Barely escaped with my life.”

“Well, if you die, I’ll be sure to write your obituary myself. I won’t let the world forget what a right bastard you were.”

“That brings immeasurable comfort, chief.”

“I do what I can. Part of the job, really.” She was smiling lightly, knowing full well that he was too, on the other end. Then, quietly, she prompted, “What’s the latest from the great Cintra?”

“Interesting weather patterns,” he commented. “It seems to blow hot and cold, without any warning.”

She hummed at that. It had been fifteen years since she’d sat down with Calanthe of Cintra, but she could remember the woman’s emotional dexterity easily enough. “You’re being put through your paces. She’ll toy with you, before she’ll truly play—and even then, it’s only if she thinks you’re a worthy opponent.”

“I’d prefer to have her not think of me as an opponent at all.” His voice was a little soft around the edges.

Tissaia smiled at that. Eist Tuirseach, for all his bluster and rough edges, was still a people-pleaser. Though somehow, he also had a backbone and a moral center that couldn’t be budged—it was what had made him such a natural choice for this assignment. Anyone else would have bowled over, done and said anything to appease Calanthe—and she would have hated them for it, most assuredly. The woman, quite simply, was built for conflict.

“I’m afraid she doesn’t really think outside of those terms,” Tissaia admitted. And it was true. The woman had allies and opponents. But never acquaintances.

“We’re seeing the first nuance in the princess’ personality.” He changed the subject slightly.

“Oh?”

“Still a pleasant thing—I think by nature, she’s simply a kind-hearted person. But she doesn’t seem to do well with the idea of failure.”

“Who does, really?”

“She takes it particularly hard.”

“How so?”

“Today, at the reading of the banns. She seemed to be feeling ill, so the fiancé dragged her away as soon as it was over. She was upset—she felt she needed to stay and wave to the people, or what the fuck ever—”

“Royals do have to pay homage,” Tissaia agreed quietly.

She could feel Tuirseach rolling his eyes at that one. Obviously, he knew far better than she ever could, on that point. “She was quiet and broody, the rest of the afternoon. Didn’t speak on the car ride back to the palace, immediately retired to her rooms until dinner. And at dinner, hardly spoke at all.”

“So…petulant?”

He gave a slight sigh. “Not…really. More like…perfectionist who self-punishes.”

“Hmm.” She certainly didn’t earn that trait from her mother, Tissaia thought. Calanthe’s ego was nearly as big as the country she reigned.

“The queen was out of sight for most of the day,” Tuirseach added. “Maybe saw her for a total of ten minutes, tops. She approved all of Mousesack’s photos from today. And, before dinner…we accidentally had a conversation.”

“Accidentally?” Tissaia perked up at that.

“I ran into her, while out on a walk. Got her alone for the first time ever.”

She shook her head. The man had the most amazing luck.

“She…has an interesting view of marriage, I think. Mentioned that once was enough, and she didn’t like making the same mistake twice.”

Tissaia hummed softly at that. “Add in that whole bit about never mentioning Roegner, and you’re getting quite an interesting little backstory.”

Now it was Eist’s turn to hum in agreement.

“Useable?” She asked quietly, obviously referring to his secondary story on the queen, of which Tissaia was fully aware.

“To be determined.”

She understood. There were thirteen days left, and it was anyone’s guess as to what else might come to light.

“Keep up the good work,” she decreed.

“Always,” he returned, with a touch of smugness. _As if I could do anything but good work, de Vries_.

She rolled her eyes at that, giving a slight sigh so that he would know she’d done so. Still, she followed up with one last question, “What’s on the itinerary for tomorrow?”

“A final fitting for the princess’ wedding dress.”

“Sounds right up your alley.”

“Jump off.”

She chuckled at that. They ended the call and she returned to her computer, scanning over a draft of Vilgefortz’s latest article. In the background, her mind lightly played over the new information Tuirseach had given. It was like building a puzzle without a reference and without all the pieces, trying to figure out how the pieces they did have fit together.

Of course, Tissaia de Vries had a few extra pieces that no one else knew about. And it made the whole puzzle a bit easier to understand. But ethically, she couldn’t quite share them. For once, there was a truth that should remain untold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst....now that the Queen's ladies have all been officially introduced, you can find their official portraits here: https://marvellouslymadmim.tumblr.com/post/618948936199225344/veiled-truths-the-queens-ladies
> 
> And yay, we have our first bit of bonus content!! The playlist is coming soon ;)


	10. ::Press Reactions to the Banns//Lions, Lambs, Shepherds Message Board::

** Excerpt from The Cintran Correspondent: **

_Princess Pavetta Makes Rare Public Appearance._

HRH Princess Pavetta ( _pictured_ ), appeared at the High Steps at the Temple of Modron yesterday, alongside Duny, Lord Urcheon, her fiancé. The couple’s marriage banns were read publicly by the High Priest, marking the start of the thirteen day count-down to the royal wedding. The princess left as soon as the banns were officially read.

** Comments from the online version of the article: **

_Adda_b_ : Poor thing, she looks terrified!

_Idleminds_ : omg that bitch so pale she’d glow in the dark XD

_shepherdspeaks_ : did anyone see the way Duny totally forced her to walk away afterwards?? Seems like a control freak…I’d bet good money Mommy Cal chose him herself to keep Pavetta in-check for life.

_Jaskierzbae4lyfe_ : @shepherspeaks umm….like Pavetta legit chose him AGAINST her mother’s wishes??? So that doesn’t check out.

_shepherdspeaks_ : @Jaskierzbae4lyfe um…that’s what we’ve been TOLD, but have you seen actual proof? No? Because we only ever know what the Lioness WANTS us to know. Wake up!

* * *

** Excerpt from an opinion piece in The Sodden Sentinel:  **

…Don’t get me wrong—I know that our royalty is renowned for being low-profile. And yes, the people aren’t owed full access to the time and attention of our monarchs. But don’t _they_ also owe _us_ for the crown on their heads? For the lovely palace and pretty frocks and lavish weddings that WE provide, with our hard-earned tax ducats?

I know Princess Pavetta is very young and definitely still finding her way. But a little common sense—and certainly a dash more common courtesy—would certainly be fitting. And as sexist as it may sound, yes, it would be nice to see a smile.

_~A Bit Saddened in Sodden._

* * *

** From the Lions, Lambs, Shepherds website, on the message board: **

_Original Post by shepherdmikaa:_ I mean, is anyone actually buying this?? The first time we see Pavetta in MONTHS and she’s pale and sickly looking. Look at the photos! She’s obviously there against her will.

_Comment by lamb_no_more:_ Young and in love? More like trapped and desperate.

_Comment by shepherds-creed276:_ I would bet every ducat I have that Duny really is Mummy’s idea—she found someone who’ll go along with her plan and hold the princess hostage long after she’s dead and gone. Honestly, I won’t be surprised if after she pops out a few babies, we hear that the princess mysteriously dies…leaving Mummy to step back in as regent until the kids are old enough.

_Comment by lamb_no_more_ : @shepherds-creed276 Fuck, I hadn’t even thought of that—but yeah, makes total sense.

_Comment by myusernamewasalreadytaken_ : I WOULDN’T PUT ANYTHING PAST THE LIONESS OF CUNTRA. THAT MANIPULATIVE BITCH IS GOING TO DO EVERYTHING SHE CAN TO STAY IN POWER.

_Comment by shepherdmikaa_ : The Lioness has rabies. She’s foaming at the mouth with power. There’s really only one solution. #theshepherdsmustprotecttheflock


	11. Have Faith

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

The princess had seen the press, Eist could tell _. The Cintran Correspondent_ and _The Sodden Sentinel_ were the only two who’d ran pieces on yesterday’s banns ceremony, but neither of them had been particularly gracious towards the princess (and as much as he wished she hadn’t, he was pretty sure that she had read the opinion piece, too, which was the worst of them—oh, how cutting people could be, behind the mask of anonymity).

At breakfast, her face was drawn and wan, despite Visindra's best attempts at levity. The duchess finally gave up, simply reaching over to rub Pavetta's back in comforting affection.

It wasn’t pouting or petulance, Eist noted. There was something…deeper to the princess' reaction.

Duny was the first to leave the breakfast table, followed by the queen’s ladies, one by one. Eist gave a quick, meaningful glance at Mousesack, who understood and retreated as well.

Once they were alone in the room, Eist quietly asked, “Would you like to talk, your highness?”

Pavetta looked up, blinking quickly as her brain caught up. “I just—no, it’s ridiculous, I know.”

“Doesn’t look as if _ridiculous_ is the sensation you’re currently feeling,” he pointed out gently. “And even if it was, that doesn’t mean it’s any less valid of a feeling.”

She smiled softly at that. Somehow it still seemed sad.

“You don’t have to, of course.” He held up his hands. He understood her wariness. He was still a reporter, after all. He felt the need to clarify, “But if you do…it’s entirely off the record.”

Her smile deepened. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, Mr. Tuirseach. You are an honorable man.”

“When it suits me,” he added with wink. She laughed slightly.

She looked better than before. A little more at-ease.

“It’s just….” She frowned a bit, as if trying to find the right words. “Every little girl dreams of being a princess, don’t they? That’s what I’ve heard, anyways. I don’t know if this has ever been something I truly dreamt of, to be honest. Maybe because I've always understood what comes next.”

“What does come next?” He asked quietly.

“More of…this.” She gave a vague gesture. “I mean, if you had read half the things people said about my mother in opinion pieces….”

He hadn’t, surprisingly. But that had been a conscious effort on his own part, to avoid bias.

“Or worse yet, the things her security team finds online.” Pavetta shook her head, eyes wide with disbelief and fear. After a beat, she looked down at her plate again. “I’ve always known what was in store, in a way. I just…wasn’t expecting it so soon. And I thought…I thought I’d be tougher. More prepared. That I’d handle it better. But I wasn’t and I haven’t and that only adds to the frustration.”

He hummed softly. He understood that—the feeling of knowing your reaction wasn’t what you wanted it to be, and yet being unable to change it, all the same. The spiral of anger and frustration it created in turn, only intensifying the situation’s emotional toll.

“I’m not built like her,” she admitted quietly, as if confessing to a great shame. “Still, I had hoped…I had hoped that throughout this whole ordeal, I could finally show her that I am her daughter, in all the ways that count.”

 _In all the ways that count._ The phrase tickled oddly at the corner of Eist’s brain.

She turned her gaze back to him, with an almost-pained smile. “The House of Raven has this…weird little tradition of giving descriptor titles to its descendants. My grandfather was the Dragon of Cintra. My mother is the Lioness, as you well know. Do you know what my title is?”

He didn’t.

“The Rose.” She practically wilted as she said it, offering another wobbly smile. “Not the sort of thing that makes the world tremble, is it?”

“Perhaps the world doesn’t need to tremble,” Eist suggested softly. “Your mother once told me that the world was changing—I think maybe she sees that change starting with you.”

“Not all change is good.”

“See, _now_ you sound like your mother’s daughter.”

She laughed at that, soft and rippling.

He wanted to ask if she truly thought her mother was disappointed, but he could see the answer clearly enough in her big green eyes.

He thought back to his conversation with Tissaia, last night. _A perfectionist who self-punishes_ —that’s how he’d described Pavetta. Now he realized that while it was true, her self-flagellation was also a pre-emptive measure of sorts. As if she were berating herself, before her mother could. Preparing herself for whatever may come next—he didn’t know if Hille or Triss had told the queen about yesterday, but he suspected they did. The loyalty of the queen’s personal staff was unparalleled. And he was dead-certain she’d already seen every snippet of press coverage.

He wondered how she’d reacted, when she’d heard. How she’d approached Pavetta about it— _if_ she’d approached Pavetta about it at all. He suddenly realized that he hadn’t actually seen the two women in the same room aside from dinner, their first night at the palace. And then, Calanthe hadn’t interacted much with her daughter.

Granted, he’d seen the depth of Calanthe’s devotion to Pavetta, in the rare glimpses of actual honesty she’d given him. But was that devotion truly to her daughter, or to the idea of the legacy Pavetta continued as her daughter?

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d encountered a royal who viewed their progeny as simply that—stock born and bred for the sole purpose of continuing a monarchy. Not as a child, an individual with whom they could build a tangible personal relationship, but rather as an obligation fulfilled, an expectation managed and accomplished, who in turn would be held up to the same obligations and expectations.

Gods, it was exactly what had sent him running from the whole nonsense, decades ago.

The princess took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders back and setting them in a stronger posture. With a false—albeit brave—smile, she announced, “Speaking of change, I think it’s about time we head back upstairs. Giltine will be here soon to set up, and he gets rather…huffy if we keep him waiting.”

* * *

Eist wasn’t sure what he expected from the royal designer, but a six-foot-tall, unimpressed and wickedly sardonic Temerian certainly wasn’t it. Giltine and his team had set up in the queen’s private drawing room, where Visindra, Triss, and Hille were already waiting, along with Mousesack.

The furniture had been pushed around a bit, the settees moved to create a row and to open up more space for the set of three standing full-length mirrors, arranged in a wide circle so that Pavetta would be able to see her dress from every angle, once she tried it on.

As soon as Pavetta entered, she was whisked through another set of double-doors, where the dress awaited, along with two of Giltine’s assistants (a dress that required two additional people to help— _madness_ , Eist thought).

But Eist kept his thoughts to himself, moving across the room to lean against the windowsill, arms folded over his chest as he idly watched the queen’s ladies chat amongst themselves on the settees in the middle of the room.

The door from the hallway opened again, and Alcise appeared, followed by Calanthe. Alcise took a seat with the others. Calanthe hovered near the now-closed door, almost as if she weren’t sure that she belonged here.

It was odd, Eist thought. He’d never seen her hesitate, before. Not that he’d seen her that often—certainly not often enough to have seen every facet of her personality, he knew. But this was the first time that she didn’t breeze into the room, didn’t look and move every inch a queen. She was quiet. Almost…nervous.

He saw a light ripple, just below the corner of her mouth. Realized she was chewing the inside of her lip.

That small tell fascinated him, more than anything else he’d seen.

The double doors of the antechamber opened again, and Pavetta appeared. The queen’s ladies oohed and ahhed. Mousesack bustled about, grabbing shots from various angles.

The queen stayed frozen in place, her right hand lightly curled against her collarbone.

Pavetta’s gaze instantly found her mother, looking up with a hopeful expression. “Well?”

“A much better fit, this time,” Calanthe decreed, giving a curt nod of approval. “And I see the hem’s been redone, with all the proper beading in place.”

Pavetta glanced down at her hem as well.

That was when Calanthe’s expression broke, briefly. Pride and adoration and almost-tears. Eist couldn’t stop staring—it was amazing, how quickly she recovered, as if it were just a muscle twitch.

She cautiously moved closer, as if Pavetta were some deadly thing that she dared not touch. Her heels clicked slowly on the wood floor as she circled, dark eyes taking in every detail of the dress.

“And the sleeves are exactly as you wanted?” She queried, voice sounding a little thick. She had to make a wider arc, to delicately step over the long train of the dress. There was something endearingly dainty about the movement, Eist thought.

“Even better,” Pavetta decreed with a grin.

“Not a thing you would change?” Her mother asked, still focusing intently on the dress.

“No. Not a thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because now’s the time—”

“It’s perfect.” Pavetta assured her. “I’m perfectly happy with it.”

“You only get one go at this,” Calanthe reminded her, finally looking up to meet her daughter’s gaze. “I want you to be more than just happy.”

“I’m ecstatic. Over the moon. Beyond all bliss and fulfillment. Absolutely—”

“Alright, smart arse.” The queen rolled her eyes at that. She turned on her heel, waving towards Giltine as if to thank him for his work. “But I’ll hear none of it, on your wedding day, when you’re ruining your mascara because suddenly you wish you’d added pearls or a longer train or what-the-fuck-ever-else all the fashionable brides are doing.”

Eist noted the secret, amused glance that Visindra and Pavetta shared. The duchess rose to her feet, moving forward to lightly place her hands on Pavetta’s shoulders, leaning in to give her a kiss on the forehead. Then she stepped back again, far enough to get a full view of the dress once more.

“You look like an absolute dream, my darling.” Visindra’s voice was soft and brimming with joy.

Eist glanced over to Calanthe, who was back at the door, one hand already on the knob, ready to bolt and disappear again. She was watching the exchange with a slight smile. “She’s right. You look lovely.”

Pavetta beamed like the sun at her mother, who smiled back like the moon—softer, but somehow just as bright.

In that moment, Eist knew for certain the answer to the questions he’d had earlier. Calanthe truly loved her daughter. And whatever disappointment Pavetta thought existed, it only existed in her own mind.

Later, Mousesack showed him a photo ( _my favorite one from the dress fitting_ , the photojournalist had admitted). Taken from behind Pavetta, it featured a front-facing reflection of her wedding dress in the full-length mirror on her left, her face turned towards the door and beaming—and on her right, Calanthe standing at the door, smiling back, gaze just a shift away from the camera. The love and affection were palpable.

In the actual moment, Eist had seen the queen’s smile from the side—it had been a bit adorable, he’d thought. But now he was afforded a different angle.

From the front, it was beautiful. Breathtakingly so.

* * *

That evening, the queen and Visindra saw the photos as well—along with a few other shots throughout the day. Once again, Calanthe had been absent from all meals, holed up in her office with Alcise.

Earlier in the day, Eist had noted that the queen’s ladies were currently living in the palace, which was a rarity in modern times. Hille had merely smiled and explained that, due to all the insanity of the next two weeks, it had been decided that the ladies would reside fulltime at the palace until after the wedding.

Now he was greeted with a different smile, when the queen looked at the dress fitting photos. Soft, barely-there, as she obviously tamped it down and schooled her response. Still, her eyes shone (yes, her eyes, they were her tell, he knew for certain now) and she lingered on the images, just a moment longer than usual.

She cleared her throat softly. “I’m not—I’m not asking you to delete the photo of me and Pavetta—in fact, I’d like a copy of it—but I do request that it not be used in the final feature.”

Eist frowned slightly at that. The queen must have sensed his confusion, because she glanced up, meeting his gaze as she quietly explained, “There are…people who will be quite glad, when the crown passes from my grasp. It’s best to keep as much distance between me and my daughter as possible, in this piece. I don’t want her tarnished by the public’s opinion of me.”

Then she fluttered her hand in Mousesack’s direction. “You can name you price, Mr. Moussek—Visindra will handle the transaction, later.”

Visindra looked up to give a slight nod to Mousesack, confirming this. He looked a bit flummoxed.

A photo that the queen wanted suppressed—normally, that would be a hint for Eist, and a prompt for him to seriously look at using it, in his secret companion piece. But somehow it didn’t quite fit with the narrative that he’d been expecting to build. And truthfully, if it could possibly damage Pavetta—well, how could he?

He was beginning to understand that perhaps, if he did truly write this secret second article, it might not follow the vein he’d originally assumed. They were only four days into this stint—who knew where they’d be, by the time the wedding actually arrived?

Calanthe could feel the man’s gaze on her as she returned her attention to the photos. It was hard to concentrate on anything else. She found herself wanting to perform, in some way. To purse her lips or play with her earring or _anything_ to keep his attention and curiosity.

 _Don’t_. Her inner voice reprimanded. _Do not engage. Do not encourage. You played with fire once, and look how it burned._

She dipped her chin slightly, willing herself to pay attention to every detail in the photograph on her screen, scanning for anything that might be too sensitive, that might get misconstrued.

But Mr. Moussek was good at his job. He seemed to understand the boundaries of his charge, and captured so much of Pavetta’s personality and spirit so effortlessly.

Yes, by the time these photos came out, no one would care a whit what those fucking imbeciles at _The Correspondent_ and _The Sentinel_ had written. Everyone would see that _this_ was the true Pavetta—and they’d fall at her feet to crown her their queen.

After all, Calanthe Fiona Riannon was no stranger to the power of a pretty face, and the oddly-overwhelming need people seemed to have for making their rulers into either angels or demons, no in-between. It was too late for her own reputation, but Pavetta still had a chance.

Once she was finished clicking through the photos, she glanced up at Visindra, who gave a slight nod of agreement—nothing needed to be deleted tonight. Then she returned the memory card to Mr. Moussek with a soft _thank you_ , closing the laptop and clasping her hands atop it.

“I did want to discuss tomorrow’s event with you.” She cast her glance between the two men, keeping her voice as calm as ever. Of course, they knew that tomorrow, Pavetta would be returning to the Queen's Council chambers for a luncheon and meeting held by the women's committee. But that was the extent of their knowledge, and there was a bit more to prepare them for. “I will be attending as well, and there will be a slightly different protocol, regarding security.”

Eist Tuirseach sat up a little at that, already on-alert ( _dammit man, why can’t you be a beautiful brick?_ ).

She continued, “Due to previous incidents, I am not permitted to enter or exit through uncovered, open-air entrances. We will still arrive at the same entrance you used earlier in the week, except the entire portico and outdoor walkway will be completely covered and tented. There will be more security officers, and they will be armed and more highly visible than the last time you attended. Danek and Renfri will be at my side, at all times. It can seem a bit excessive and overwhelming, so I do want you to prepare yourselves, mentally. And I would ask that these security measures be neither photographed nor chronicled in the upcoming article—or shared with anyone you know, even in the smallest detail.”

Eist noticed her hands, still clasped together. There was no tension in her knuckles, no tell-tale whitening to imply a too-tight grip (always a sign of nervousness), but her fingernails were digging into her skin, as if the points of pain were the only thing keeping her from outright clenching her hands together.

His mind reeled as it processed exactly why she wasn’t allowed to be in the open air—and exactly what kind of incident would have created such a protocol. And not being able to simply be in a room, without two bodyguards at your side?

There was a story there, he knew. He doubted she’d ever divulge it, but maybe she wouldn’t need to. He was a journalist, after all, no stranger to rolling his sleeves up and doing some investigating of his own.

“Of course, your highness,” Mousesack answered before Eist could—granted Eist was a bit distracted by the little line at the corner of the queen’s mouth, slightly downturned into an almost-frown of worry.

He recovered in time to add, “We would never do anything to jeopardize the safety of yourself or the princess, madame.”

She merely nodded, unclasping her hands (yep, she had little crescent-moons embedded in her skin, Eist noted).

Calanthe realized he was looking at her hands—she glanced down and saw exactly what he’d seen ( _gods dammit, why can’t you just stare at my tits instead?_ ). She quickly slipped them into her lap, fixing him with a look that dared him to comment.

He didn’t, of course. Merely lifted his brows slightly, neither condoning nor condemning. Perfectly neutral, perfectly professional.

She wanted to scream. Just a little. Instead, she kept her tone completely devoid of any emotion as she said, “I thank you for your understanding, gentlemen. Good night.”

By now, they didn’t wait for Visindra to lightly usher them forward. They merely said their own farewells, ducking their heads slightly in pseudo-bows as they rose to their feet and left the room.

Once they’d left, Visindra resumed the argument that they’d been having all week, “I still don’t see why you didn’t just have the committee come here—”

“ _Because_ ,” Calanthe hit the word hard, pushing all her frustration into it. “The entire point is that the queen is _invited_ to sit in on the committee. Not that she _deigns_ to let them enter her sphere. It’s about balance.”

“Yes, thank you, your majesty, for that lesson in basic governmental procedure,” Visindra deadpanned. “It’s now all so clear now.”

Calanthe huffed, though not in amusement.

Visindra tried again. “It wouldn’t send the entire nation crashing to the ground, if just once, you—”

“We will not alter our entire lives based on a few little flutterings,” she declared.

Visindra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve read the reports, Cal. Just as easily as you. This isn’t just some little rumor, it’s a genuine—”

“I will not bow to fear.”

“Oh, you won’t bow at all—you’ll hit your knees and then smack face-first on the pavement, once the bullet blows through your brain,” Visindra shot back sharply. Calanthe blinked at that.

An awful, ugly beat passed.

The duchess rubbed her forehead heavily, turning away to the window behind the queen’s desk with a frustrated sigh.

“Forgive me, your highness. I spoke out of turn.”

“Don’t,” Calanthe murmured softly. “You know I can’t stand it.”

Visindra understood: _don’t retreat behind the mask of formality, don’t go from being my best friend to my subject, don’t pretend as if you haven’t earned the right to speak freely, don’t treat me like a queen, don’t forget I’m your best friend too, don’t abandon me emotionally when I need you the most._

“I’m sorry.” She was apologizing for retreating, not for her sharp words.

“I am taking this seriously,” Calanthe assured her, voice still quiet. “But I also cannot show weakness. Not right now. Not when Pavetta needs me most.”

“She needs you _alive_ ,” Visindra whispered urgently, turning back to her friend. She placed one hand on the back of Calanthe’s chair and the other on her desk, leaning in to make full eye contact. “I don’t give a fuck-all about appearing weak. I’ll melt into a puddle right here and now, if it’ll make you change your mind, just the once.”

Calanthe’s eyes were a little watery. “Please don’t. You’ll ruin the carpet.”

Visindra burst into surprised laughter at that, quick and breathless. Calanthe hummed in amusement as well, face filling with relief to see some of the woman’s stress melt away.

“I will be careful,” Calanthe promised. “Renfri will be there. Can you ever imagine her letting anything happen to me?”

Visindra’s expression crumpled a little. Quietly, she confessed, “She would give her life for you. But that doesn’t mean you should ask her to.”

Calanthe blinked hard at that, as if she’d been slapped. Her mouth set in a firmer line. “It’s done. Both the decision and this discussion.”

Visindra didn’t move. She simply hung her head, as if devastated and defeated. Calanthe didn’t move either. She simply waited.

“I wish I could hate you, sometimes,” Visindra said gently.

“I know,” Calanthe returned. She merely dipped her head forward a little, too, closer to Visindra’s. Quietly, she prompted, “Vis.”

Visindra obeyed the unspoken request, looking up again. The corners of Calanthe’s mouth trembled, seeing the tears in Visindra’s eyes. Still, she pushed back the tightness in her throat and whispered, “Have faith.”

Visindra blinked, and a tear escaped.

“I do,” she promised. And it was utterly true. Despite her terror, there was always an underlying belief that Calanthe would always simply will herself into surviving, because she always had done.

Calanthe smiled softly, a bit heartbrokenly. Visindra returned the smile.

They were, as usual, agreeing to disagree. Even on something as devastatingly important as this.

With a small nod of approval, Calanthe gently declared, “You are dismissed for the evening, my lady. Go get some rest.”

Visindra rose to her full height slowly, delicately wiping away the tears. With a sniff, she tossed her hair slightly. “Shall I send in Alcise?”

“No. I’ve released her for the day as well. I think we could all do with an early night—besides, I think you need her more than I do, at the moment.”

Visindra hummed in agreement. Calanthe stowed away the laptop and rose to her feet. Visindra couldn’t help herself—she reached out, rubbing her friend’s back gently. It was an unspoken apology, of sorts. Calanthe merely ducked her head and quietly accepted it.

Visindra walked Calanthe all the way to her rooms, and Calanthe didn’t object. She understood that she needed this, in some way. Visindra kept her right arm looped through Calanthe’s left, while her left hand came up to reassuringly rub Calanthe’s bicep as they walked along.

The reassurance wasn’t for Calanthe—it was for herself, Calanthe knew. She could practically hear the woman’s mind quietly chanting: _it’s ok, it’s ok, she’s here, she’s safe, it’s ok._

Calanthe had never been very good at physical affection or reassurance. As in all things, Visindra was her polar opposite. And by now, Visindra understood that Calanthe simply allowing herself to be petted or hugged was her own way of being physically affectionate.

But still, Calanthe tried, for her closest friend. She reached up, covering Visindra’s hand with her own and stopping its almost-frantic movements. _It is ok. I am here. We are safe._

Visindra smiled, just a bit. It was wobbly and her nose didn’t scrunch.

“Get some rest,” Calanthe charged her again, once they reached the door to her chambers.

Visindra nodded quickly. Calanthe got the feeling the woman was lying—she wasn’t going to rest, not for a while.

So she simply suggested, “Have Alcise go over the details with you. She’s put every protocol in place imaginable—you know how meticulous she gets.”

Visindra smiled softly at that, “I do.”

“And get drunk,” Calanthe added. “Get drunk and get laid.”

Visindra laughed fully, shaking her head. “I shall endeavor to do as my queen commands.”

She took a beat to simply look at Calanthe, who patiently watched her back.

“I have faith,” she assured her queen.

Calanthe blinked softly. “I know.”

With a curt nod, Visindra turned on her heel and clipped down the hall.

Calanthe watched her go. Now, alone with only her thoughts, her throat tightened with anxiety. What if Visindra was right? What if the risk was too great? What if she did survive, but at the cost of someone else’s life? Could she live with such a thing—knowing her pride and her stubbornness had effectively murdered someone whose only crime was trusting her?

She slipped inside the antechamber to her bedroom. She closed the door and leaned against it, waiting a beat as she surveyed the space.

Nothing was out of place. It was all perfectly ordinary. Of course it was. No one could make it this far, without her team noticing. No one could reach her, in here.

They had, before. But it wouldn't happen again. She had faith.

Still, her pulse thrummed so loudly in her ears that she couldn't hear anything else ( _gods, she couldn't hear anything else, if someone stirred in the shadows, if a door shifted just a bit_...she wanted to close her eyes, to will herself to a calmer state, but even that seemed like a risk to her exhausted and over-anxious brain). She pressed her lips together and her hands into the door behind her, counting the beats of her heart (which she could feel in every inch of her body, heavy and quick and panicked, solid and steady as a wardrum) and forcing herself not to retreat, mentally or physically.

_It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok. I’m here, I’m safe, I’m ok._

It was several minutes before she believed it enough to move forward. But she did, eventually, and she counted it a victory, all the same.


	12. Roses and Lions

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Alcise and Visindra were sideways with each other, Eist realized at breakfast the next morning. For the first time since his arrival, the queen was actually at breakfast, though she barely ate. Instead, she seemed to spend most of her time going over the schedule for the day with Hille, who as usual, was seated further down the table, next to Mousesack.

With each new item mentioned, Visindra would look over at Alcise, who would simply tilt her head to one side, obviously irritated with whatever unspoken conversation was being held between them.

Eist tried not to outright stare. But it was fascinating.

“So we will depart from the palace at 9:45,” Hille announced in her usual pleasantly light tone, almost sounding like a tour guide.

Alcise piped up, keeping her gaze locked on Visindra, “From the underground entrance.”

“Yes, of course,” Hille continued, oblivious due to her focus on the paper in front of her. “We’re inside the building by 10:30—”

“After passing through the entirely tented portico and breezeway, all of which are currently being actively scanned and cleared,” Alcise interjected again in a calm tone. Visindra’s mouth was still pressed into a thin line.

The queen took a beat to offer a slow, unreadable look at the Countess of Strept, who was still intently focused on the duchess.

Hille looked up at that, frowning slightly. This time, she simply continued, “Then we’re officially introduced at about five past eleven, once the meeting comes to order.”

Alcise spoke again, “Renfri and Danek—”

“Mother of fucking mine!” Calanthe slammed her hand on the table, making everyone jump. “I’d murder you both, just for a moment to fucking think.”

That was directed at Visindra and Alcise, neither of whom looked remotely chagrined or apologetic.

The queen whipped her napkin from her lap, rising to her feet and giving a beckoning motion. “Hille, my office. I would like to be able to actually review the schedule in peace, without _constant nattering_.”

She spared a glance at both Alcise and Visindra.

“I thought you two got this sorted last night,” she said, in a low tone.

“So had I,” Alcise returned quietly. Her gaze hadn’t left Visindra, the entire time.

Visindra blinked, looking up at her queen. Eist noted the way her hand curled into a fist atop the table, her lips pressing into a hard, thin line.

He had no idea what was going on, but it was utterly captivating.

Here was the queen he’d been expecting to see, from the beginning. She burned and she bit—and right now, she was drilling Visindra with such an intensely direct stare that a lesser person would shrink back in fear.

“Hille,” she repeated, spinning on her heel and billowing out of the room.

“Well.” Hille delicately extracted herself from her seat, scooping up her folder. “We shall see you all downstairs.”

As she breezed by, she lightly patted Alcise’s taut shoulder.

Once the door was fully closed, Pavetta spoke, “There’s…nothing to fear, right?”

“Right.” Alcise’s voice was impossibly soft, tinged with a note of affection. Still, she kept her eyes locked on Visindra, even as she continued reassuring the princess, “Your mother is not a fool, Pavetta. She is surrounded by some of the best security officers in the world. And I would never allow her to go out without absolutely every precaution.”

Her voice went softer still, almost tearful, on the last bit. Eist realized that part in particular was directed entirely at Visindra, whose eyes were brimming with tears. The duchess swallowed thickly, ducked her head.

“Yes, of course, I know that,” she admitted.

“Good,” Alcise returned gently. Then her voice grew stronger. “Now, stop freaking out the kid and pissing off the queen.”

Visindra huffed lightly at that. Pavetta reached over and patted her hand.

For the first time, Alcise turned to look directly at Eist, almost startling him with the sudden scrutiny.

“You are aware and agreed to protocol for today?” She lightly tilted her head to one side, sparing a quick glance to Mousesack as well. There was something calculating in her gaze—he felt that he was seeing her, for perhaps the first time. Until now, in the few interactions they’d shared, she’d always been sweet and soft-spoken, a bit of a darling. Now she was as direct and calm as a general.

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“Good.” She shifted in her seat again, returning her attention to her breakfast. “You must forgive us for bringing a personal disagreement to the table.”

Visindra very pointedly drank her water. As if it were the only thing keeping her from biting back a retort.

Pavetta was still watching the duchess with a curious and concerned expression. Duny, wisely, was focused on his plate, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world—much like Mousesack. Triss, like Eist, was watching the entire exchange with unrepentant fascination.

“Has something happened?” Pavetta finally asked.

“Something always happens,” Alcise returned philosophically. That earned her a quick, dark look from Visindra. So she acquiesced, a little. “There is just a general concern that the recent…uptick in public visibility might bring out a few unsavory types. As a precaution, we are resuming full security protocol. But it’s a precaution, not a preventative measure.”

“Is there a difference?” Eist couldn’t stop himself from asking.

Alcise blinked, as if slightly stunned by the question. “Of course. Precautions are for threats that are entirely hypothetical and most likely improbable. Preventative measures are for threats that are _actually_ made, and are therefore more probable.”

Eist had noticed a bit of a pattern, over the past few days—each of the queen’s ladies seemed to have a specific role. Triss stepped in as general secretary, with Hille being the head of scheduling and coordination. Visindra seemed to handle everything related to political strategy—and apparently, Alcise took on security and threat monitoring.

He thought back to all the times that Alcise had been holed up with the queen, in her office. What discussions must have been happening, during those long hours. He also remembered the precautions the queen had mentioned, during last night’s debriefing.

Didn’t seem like the kind of planning required for mere hypothetical threats. He wisely didn’t say so aloud—especially not with Pavetta directly across from him, obviously already worried.

Visindra shifted, ducking her head slightly as she reached over to pat Pavetta’s leg. “I’m sorry, love. You know how I get, sometimes.”

“I know how my mother gets, sometimes, too,” Pavetta returned quietly.

Visindra smiled at that. “With everything going on right now, we’re all just…a little tense.”

“We are constantly monitoring the situation,” Alcise pointed out. Quickly, she added, “Or lack thereof, in this particular case.”

Eist knew instantly that her addition was a lie. He saw it in the tension in her hands, the tightness of her jaw.

He felt a wave of concern. It was followed by an odd impulse to hurry out after the queen. To keep her in his sight, as much as possible.

He’d feel that impulse towards anybody, of course. The need to protect and defend was just part of who he was, in some way.

And just with Alcise, he knew his addition was a lie.

* * *

**The Queen’s Council Chambers, Cintra _._**

Once again, Eist was fascinated by how the Cintran royal women used their hair as symbolism. Pavetta had a single braid looped around her head, coming all the way around to disappear into a bun. Calanthe had two braids, one starting at each temple, curving up to meet at the crown of her skull into a single braid that eventually incorporated all of her hair and then rolled up into a chignon (it looked a bit like a cinnamon roll, Eist thought, and instantly he craved sugar). Both women’s braids were highly reminiscent of crowns, and highly intentional, he knew.

Everything about their appearance today was highly intentional, he realized. The queen was obviously further setting up the difference between herself and her daughter—Pavetta wore a simple business dress, with quarter-length sleeves and an oversized winged collar, in a light blue. She looked clean-cut and fresh, stylish and youthful. The promise of the future. Calanthe wore a high-waisted navy pencil skirt, with a cropped tweed jacket over a silk crème shirt whose ruffled jabot collar lent the ensemble a prudish, almost matronly air. She was the opposite of her daughter’s style—stuffy and archaic. The former establishment.

At least that was the effect Eist assumed she was going for. Somehow, she still made her outfit seem perfectly balanced, regal and reserved and just-right. Not that Eist Tuirseach was a judge of fashion, to be sure—but if she was going for prudish and matronly, she should have chosen a different skirt, and a different shade of lipstick.

He turned his attention back to the princess, who was leaning against the wall in the corridor again. This time, they were outside a smaller conference room, where the women’s committee of the Queen’s Council would be holding a meeting, followed by a luncheon. This time, Mousesack and Eist would be allowed inside. Eist wasn’t sure how he felt about that—being surrounded by stodgy old nobles, forced to sit and make small talk through bland baked chicken and salad. He was certain that Mousesack was anticipating it about as much as he would a firing squad.

Further down the hall, Renfri shifted and moved, a bit like a restless shark. Eist had not heard her utter a single word, since she’d arrived with the queen at the palace’s underground parking garage. She was intensely focused—only furthering Eist’s suspicions that they were reacting to an actual threat against the queen.

Calanthe, however, remained impassively unimpressed as always. If anyone was truly nervous right now, it was Pavetta. There was a stirring from within the conference room—obviously the main doors had been opened and the committee members were entering, chattering amongst themselves.

Pavetta leaned further against the wall, hand coming to her stomach as she let out a low, measured breath. She looked as if she might be sick again.

Eist realized this was different from her other events, too. This one, she would be required to interact fully, to remain charming and engaged whilst not making any political or social faux pas, all while under the scrutiny of women who would most likely still be ruling the legislative branch when she became queen.

Calanthe glanced over at her daughter, dark eyes flicking down her form in mild concern.

“I feel like I could throw up,” Pavetta admitted quietly, almost ashamed.

“You have about five minutes, if you need to,” Calanthe returned. She indicated the nearest washroom with a tilt of her head. There was something…kind, in her response. She didn’t judge Pavetta for her nerves. Simply offered a solution.

“I won’t,” Pavetta said, a bit more determinedly. Calanthe merely nodded.

Hille shifted further away, as if trying to give them a bit more privacy. Mousesack hesitated, then followed suit, though he kept his eyes trained and ready for a potentially good shot. Eist, however, didn’t move. He simply paid closer attention.

A voice began calling the meeting to order. Pavetta grimaced again as she recognized its owner. “Agh, Countess Gerinne. She hates me.”

“You were fifteen at the time, she can’t hold it against you,” Calanthe returned gently.

“Tell that to her.” Pavetta flicked her eyes heavenward. After a beat, she confessed, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

She looked at her mother with absolute fear.

Now Calanthe practically snapped into action. She closed the gap between them, taking Pavetta’s face in her hands and meeting her gaze intensely.

“You can. You will. You must.” She said, in a low, definitive tone. It was obviously something she’d quoted to her daughter, many times.

Eist knew he was outright staring, but he couldn’t help it. The history and connection and unspoken exchange between the queen and the princess was absolutely fascinating.

Pavetta gave a slight nod. Calanthe waited, face lined with determined expectation.

“I can. I will. I must,” Pavetta echoed softly. She blinked a few times.

Calanthe gave a single, curt nod. She didn’t release her daughter’s face. Instead, her thumbs lightly brushed against each cheek.

“You do not have to be a lion,” she said quietly. There was something…aching, almost tearful in her tone, Eist noted. For the first time, he realized that perhaps Calanthe was actually quite aware of Pavetta’s fear of disappointing her mother. Then, with a bit more resolve, she added, “A rose’s thorns can be just as sharp as a lion’s fangs.”

Now Pavetta smiled, relief and delight blossoming across her features. Calanthe was smiling too, so full of pride and adoration that it was nearly palpable. Eist felt a small frisson of awe, as if he were witnessing something sacred.

This, he thought. If he had to choose a point to start his human-interest piece— _this_ would be the perfect point. Though the queen would immediately take issue, as she wanted no role at all in the story.

Calanthe took another beat to simply look into her daughter’s eyes. Then she stepped back, releasing her.

“You will do well,” she decreed, with absolute certainty. “I loathe these things, too, but we must always rise above.”

Pavetta nodded again, standing a little straighter. Calanthe shifted closer to the doorway, setting her shoulders and calmly clasping her hands in front of her as she waited to be introduced. Pavetta moved closer, mimicking her mother’s posture.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eist saw Mousesack raise his camera to capture the moment. He felt a measure of joy at the thought—yes, the queen would definitely request that one not be used, he knew, but he realized it would probably still make her smile in that soft and gentle way that made her eyes shine.

He studiously avoided asking himself exactly why he wanted to make her smile, particularly like that.

They were officially announced, and the queen reached back, squeezing Pavetta’s hand lightly. Then, once again, she became an entirely different person. She sashayed into the room with an air that Eist hadn’t seen before. He’d seen her slip into spaces quietly, had (much more often) seen her billow into the room with the full force of authority and sense of self—but this, this was a particularly feminized version of her usual quick clip. She swiveled her hips more, kept her hands set at an almost-dainty angle.

She played to an ideal, he realized. From his current vantage point at the door, he could see the faces of the assembled nobles, mostly women—they watched her raptly, and most seemed both admiring and jealous. He realized that she was presenting herself as the woman they all wanted to be, sleek and smooth and effortlessly charming. Feminine and fierce. Pretty as a bombshell; powerful as a bomb.

Pavetta, Renfri, and Danek all followed, but Hille hung back, quietly informing Eist and Mousesack that they would wait a few moments before entering. If it meant slipping in, instead of being highly scrutinized by arriving to a huge announcement, Eist would gladly wait.

The queen graciously shook the hand of the countess, who’d introduced them. She leaned in for a quick air kiss, before stepping back and extending her arm to include Pavetta. The princess smiled and shook the countess’ hand as well, daintily accepting an air kiss, too.

Calanthe’s hand reached for the small of Pavetta’s back, but then retreated before making actual contact. Eist idly wondered how often she did that—restrained herself in public, in hopes that it would somehow help her daughter’s future or maintain some image of her own stoic self.

Renfri and Danek faded back against the wall, scanning the room inconspicuously. Pavetta and the countess both took seats on either side of a lectern at the middle of the long table, which faced a dozen smaller round tables, filled with council members as well.

The queen stepped up to the lectern, gracing the room with an enigmatic smile. “It truly is a delight to be here, Madame Councilor, and I extend my deepest thanks to the committee for inviting us to join you today. As you all know, I adore any chance I get to spend time with my council, as their advice is sweet music to my ears and a balm unto my soul. I take as much delight in their presence as they do in mine, no doubt.”

She did that thing again—winking without actually winking—and the room rippled with low chuckles. It was interesting, the openness within the queen’s culture. Eist remembered Visindra making a quip about the queen, before reading her blessing, and how most had laughed in knowing agreement then, too. Calanthe of Cintra could be difficult, but her acknowledgment of her own personality flaws seemed to make the councilors accept them—at least a bit more kindly, anyways.

She’d done that with him, too. That afternoon in the garden, when she’d quipped about her warm and welcoming personality. It had worked—disarming him almost completely.

It was in that moment that Eist realized she used honesty as a weapon, too, when it suited her. She admitted just enough to make someone feel at-ease, but in the end, she revealed nothing more than exactly what she wanted, nothing more than what they already knew. Just like her official royal portrait.

He now fully understood why _fascinating_ seemed to be the most common adjective applied to the queen. She truly was a marvel.

“Now we go,” Hille murmured in a low tone, motioning for the men to follow. The entrance was at the side of the room, so they easily slipped in, skirting around the edge of the room to take their seats at the back. Very few took notice—granted, they were all focused on the queen’s speech, and Eist didn’t blame them. She was certainly a fairer sight than two raggedly journalists.

There were two other women at their table, aides of some kind, who merely smiled in greeting and then turned their attention back to the front of the room. One was leaning forward, practically transfixed.

Eist followed her gaze.

The room’s lighting had been rigged to put almost a spotlight on the lectern, framing the queen’s face as she spoke, washing out her skin to a softer, practically-perfect glow. She paused at one point, taking a beat to draw her gaze over the room—she was wearing her coyest smile, one corner of her mouth open and hitched up to reveal her teeth.

He could feel the way most of the audience practically leaned in, waiting for the rest.

She played to her audience like a cat would toy with a mouse, Eist realized. Fully aware of her power and using it just enough to keep them hanging on—yet all the while, there was a sense that she wasn’t even using her fullest efforts, wasn’t even really trying at all.

She was a consummate orator. She could have these people bellowing for war, if she wanted to. Could move them to tears, if she chose. She made them laugh when she wanted, make them fall silent again when she wanted, too. And when she finished her speech, her pleased expression at their thunderous applause implied that she’d expected no less a reaction than exactly what she’d been given.

She was far more dangerous than he’d ever realized. Eist found himself wondering if those skills had ever been used on him—and he knew the answer, as surely as he knew his own name.

Tissaia’s words echoed in his mind: _You’re being put through your paces. She’ll toy with you, before she’ll truly play._

He had meant what he’d said, in response. He didn’t want Calanthe to see him as an opponent. He wanted her to trust him. Wanted her to be authentic with him.

This only doubled his determination. He would get to the real Calanthe of Cintra, no matter how many layers there were in between. Before this whole ordeal was said and done, he’d know the woman, in her truest self.

It was now an almost-obsessive need, he realized with a flash of concern. Originally, he’d told himself that earning her trust was necessary to learning more about her, for his secret companion piece on her. Now…he wasn’t quite sure what his motivation was.

After another brief speech, Calanthe and Pavetta left the table to mingle until lunch was served. Mousesack quietly got up and skirted around the edge of the room again. Hille disappeared as well—Eist soon spotted her, chatting away with another group of women, completely in-place and at-ease with others of her kind.

Calanthe cut through the shifting crowds easily, offering easy smiles and graceful handshakes. Every time, she’d turn slightly, nodding towards Pavetta, whom she’d introduce with a smile. Then she’d shift back, just a bit, hands clasped in front of her as she simply watched her daughter continue the conversation with whomever.

Her face was almost a mask, Eist noted. But her eyes—they glowed with a softness that was unparalleled.

He realized that if he did write a companion piece, it wouldn’t be about how different the current queen was from the future one.

He also decided that he wasn’t writing a companion piece at all. Instead, he would write two versions of the same story. One, as requested—the princess alone, little-to-no mention of the queen’s part. The second, the truth he wished the world could read—the story of a mother, and a daughter she loved beyond compare.

Only one would ever get published, he knew. But he needed her to read the other. He needed her to know that, in some way, she was seen.

Again, he really, really tried not to think about why he needed such a thing.

Again, he already knew the answer.

* * *

**Spalla, Lyria.**

Yennefer had been an investigative journalist for six years now—she’d honed her skills for tracking and finding even the most elusive leads and individuals.

Still, finding Geralt Rivia’s home address had been one of the hardest tasks she’d come up against. The man’s dedication to living off the grid was impressive.

She still wasn’t entirely sure she had the right location. She’d found property records for a little house and two acres of land, just outside the city limits of Spalla, on the banks of the Yaruga River. The records listed the owner as a Visenna Rivia, a name which Yennefer then found on the birth records for a Geralt Rivia. Visenna had died years ago, but the property taxes were still paid and up to date, which meant someone had to be taking care of the place.

She just hoped it was the someone that she’d flown out to Lyria to see.

The rental car shuddered and jumped along the ruts and bumps in the unpaved road, which wound through the countryside.

_What a perfect place to get murdered_ , she thought wryly. Still, she gritted her teeth and continued on, praying there wasn’t any actual damage to the car. Eventually, a house appeared, surrounded by a few long plots of vegetable gardens and a small toolshed. It looked utterly peaceful. Entirely not like the broody and unpredictable Geralt.

Everyone has a secret side, she reminded herself. And besides, her time with Geralt had been brief and…focused on things other than each other’s personalities.

She put the car in park, killed the engine, and stepped out, squinting slightly in the afternoon sun as she looked around.

On the front porch, a familiar figure stood, watching her with a grim expression.

“I said no.”

Geralt had said no, when she’d called him up two days ago. Had hung up, directly after.

“Well I wasn’t done talking.” She closed the car door, setting her hands on her hips.

He flicked his gaze heavenward at that.

It was almost comforting, how their dynamic hadn’t changed, despite the time and distance. She shifted the topic slightly, “I wasn’t sure if this was the right place. Or if you’d even be here.”

He merely held open his hands, as if to say, _But it is, and here I am_.

A beat passed.

Geralt sighed and turned on his heel, “C’mon, then. At least have a cup of tea before you drive back to Spalla.”

* * *

The whole house was an utterly mystifying experience for Yennefer. Granted, she only saw three rooms—the kitchen where Geralt prepared their tea, a side room whose open door afforded her a quick peek (some kind of meditation room, so new-agey that she blinked hard, trying to reconcile the aesthetic with the practical and dourly stoic Geralt she knew), and the living room that they walked through, on their way to the backyard garden where they took their tea. The living room was by far the most interesting—no television, just a large stone hearth with bookcases inset on each side, filled with a mixture of books and photographs from Geralt’s life and career.

He was a personal protection agent. That’s how they’d met, actually—she’d been following one of his clients, at the time. She’d gotten a bit too close and he’d nearly decked her. Once he questioned her thoroughly and realized that she wasn’t the threat he’d been hired to protect his client against, he let her go. By then, she’d been intrigued. She’d pursued him, as a way in.

It had been a bad idea and they’d both known it, from the start. That hadn’t stopped them in the least. Then, once she’d gotten what she’d needed, she’d disappeared, writing a scathing exposé that resulted in Geralt calling her up and bawling her out for the breach in trust.

Aside from their brief phone call two days ago, that had been the last time they’d spoken.

Once they were settled into some iron-wrought patio chairs beside a matching table, Geralt spoke again, “You know that I can’t trust you enough to give you any information whatsoever—and _especially_ not information that you actually want.”

She hummed at that, taking a cautious sip of her tea. It scalded her tongue, just a bit. “I’m not looking for quotes or dirt, Geralt. I just…need to know how to get to the next person.”

“The next person is someone currently still working for the Queen of Cintra,” he clarified, even though they both already knew that.

He regretted ever letting it slip that he’d once worked for Calanthe, Yennefer knew. He’d had no clue how much that would come back to bite him in the arse, until now.

She waited. He shook his head, “I can’t help you. It’s been ages. I don’t keep in touch with those people. And I’m sure most of the ones I worked with have left the good queen’s employ by now.”

“So she’s difficult,” Yennefer concluded. She couldn’t help but grin at Geralt’s frustrated look.

“She’s…complicated.”

“Aren’t we all,” she drawled quietly. He huffed at that.

A brief silence ensued. Then he shifted, fixing her with a curious gaze, “What’s your angle here?”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I just know that there’s something more going on, and I want to find out what it is.”

“Explain.”

She did. Told him about the human-interest piece on the princess, her suspicions about Tissaia.

“So,” Geralt set his tea down again, brows furrowing slightly as he pieced together all the new information. “A magazine, to which you are no longer even tangentially connected, is writing a piece on a princess from a country to which you have no connection, nor any interest in—and suddenly, it must be the cover up of the century?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. Leave it to Geralt to simplify in a way that made her look bad.

“Even if it is propaganda, who cares?” He asked quietly.

“Because it isn’t right.” And it wasn’t, truly. The continent’s most powerful nation, using the world’s largest and most widely read publication to churn out propaganda for its up and coming leader? It had every feel of a set-up to something bigger. A war, in which Cintra was somehow both the aggressor and the morally right, perhaps.

“A lot of the world isn’t right, Yennefer.” He watched her for another beat before adding, “This isn’t about Calanthe. Or even unfair journalistic practices. This is about Tissaia, and whatever grudge you’ve held against her, for years now.”

“Right. Of course. Because how could I possibly actually care about not letting an injustice slip by—”

“What injustice? Someone writes a nice thing about a princess? Happens every day. Someone else writes not-so-nice things about her, just as frequently. It’s life. There’s always balance.”

She looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. “When did you become a philosopher?”

“I’m mellowing in my old age,” he smiled wryly.

She glanced around the garden, beautifully kept and meticulously plotted. He was different, now. Half a decade had changed him. She looked back at him, curious, “Are you still in the security business?”

He ducked his head slightly. As close to a yes as she’d get.

“Who are you working for now?”

“Someone who pays me well and allows me plenty of time to relax and enjoy the peace and quiet of my own home.”

“Someone in politics?”

He chuckled at that. “Absolutely not.”

“Someone famous?”

He sighed. “Perhaps it’s best if you finish your tea, Yennefer.”

She took a beat to simply watch him. Even now, with his light air of frustration, he was far less tense than he used to be. She realized that in some odd way, she had missed him.

“Are you happy?” She prodded, just a bit more.

“Are you?” He turned his intense gaze back onto her. In the bright sunlight, there was something oddly familiar about his features. The way the sun hit his nearly-white hair, the shape of his chin.

She blinked a few times. “I try to be. I don’t really think I was built for it, truth be told.”

“Built for what?”

“For being happy. For…being satisfied and content enough to feel as if I’m happy.”

This, _this_ she missed. She could be honest with him, in a way that she couldn’t with most. She wasn’t sure how he did it. For all the things he had told her, all the truths he’d let slip to help build her exposé, she had given away just as many secrets of her own self, her own life.

He shrugged slightly. “Some of us are born with the skill. Some of us have to learn it.”

“I don’t think I can learn,” she admitted.

“I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do, once you set your mind to it,” he returned with a wry tone. He finished his tea and rose to his feet. “You should start back now. Make it back to Spalla in time for a nice dinner along the palisades.”

She gathered her tea mug and followed him back inside. This time, she went a bit slower, taking in the photos on the shelves in the living room.

It was like looking at the man’s diary. There was a framed photo of him and….Jaskier, the popstar?

There were several people in the shot, all huddled closely together. Given everyone else’s all-black ensembles, this was evidently a shot of Jaskier and his team, from security to personal assistant.

Jaskier’s hairstyles were constantly changing, and this particular one was only from a few months ago. Everyone’s smile was genuine; they all looked close and comfortable with each other. Like a little family. There was another photo, higher up on the shelf. Most of the same people, a few years younger. With a wry smile, Yennefer wondered if that was why Geralt seemed so different, so relaxed.

Several shelves over, a framed commendation from the Queen of Cintra, extolling his exemplary service. A gift, from when he left the Crown’s employ, obviously.

Geralt cleared his throat. She looked back to see him standing at the edge of the couch, frowning with slight impatience. She noticed the newspaper, spread across the couch cushions.

It was _The_ _Cintran Correspondent_ , interestingly enough. She wisely pretended not to notice, heading to the kitchen to deposit her tea mug in the sink. She wished Geralt well and wheedled him again for a possible contact, but he refused, as expected.

She drove back into Spalla, but didn’t enjoy a lovely dinner on the palisades. Instead, she holed up in her hotel room, trawling the internet for old paparazzi shots of the Queen of Cintra. There weren’t a lot, unless you knew where to look—and she knew the underbelly of the internet like the back of her hand. Yennefer had to guesstimate on the timespan to focus on, but the date on the framed commendation helped immensely. It took a while, finally stumbling upon a shot of the Queen, leaving some event—in the background, Geralt Rivia’s unmistakable hair, far shorter then, and his familiar broad-set shoulders.

It was a long shot. She got the photographer information, tracked him down online. Sent him an email, asking if he had any other photos from that event and offering to purchase them. He responded an hour later—yes, he did, but it would take him a minute to find them.

By the next morning, she was off to Sodden, to buy twenty-year-old photos from a former paparazzo. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for yet, but she had absolute faith that she’d know it when she saw it.


	13. ::Press Release from The Queen's Council//Lions, Lambs, Shepherds Message Board::

** Press Release from The Queen's Council Website **

Earlier today, the Women’s Committee welcomed Her Majesty The Queen and Her Royal Highness The Princess Pavetta at their quarterly conclave. This session was focused on empowering women entrepreneurs through the creation of more governmental grants and programs. Her Majesty has officially lent her support for the committee’s current piece of legislation, which would allocate more tax funds towards such grants and programs. “If it passes in the council—and surely it shall—I shall sign my name with absolute pride upon it.”

The Committee thanks both Her Majesty and Her Royal Highness for their attendance and their continued championing of the rights of women.

* * *

** From the Lions, Lambs, Shepherds website, on the chat forum: **

_Original Post by shepherds-creed276:_ Anyone else see this? [link] Pavetta really doesn’t leave the palace AT ALL unless Mummy or Duny’s with her.

_lamb_no_more_ : Ugh. Honestly someone should have just put a little extra something in Mummy’s food. Solved a whole lot of problems, if ya know what I mean…

_shepherdmikaa:_ @lamb_no_more that’s been tried before. Years ago. Why do you think you never hear about the Lioness’ movements until after she’s made them?

_lamb_no_more:_ @shepherdmikaa What? Really??

_shepherdmikaa:_ @lamb_no_more About a decade ago. She’s basically been in hiding since then.

_lamb_no_more:_ @shepherdmikaa damn.

_shepherds-creed276_ : She can hide all she wants. Karma always takes its price.

_shepherdmikaa:_ [this comment has been deleted]

_shepherds-creed276_ : [this comment has been deleted]

_shepherdmikaa_ : [this comment has been deleted]

_shepherds-creed276_ : [this comment has been deleted]

_shepherdmikaa_ : #theshepherdsmustprotecttheflock

_shepherds-creed276_ : #theshepherdsmustprotecttheflock


	14. Blame It On the Bocce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Whew, those last few chapters are starting to get angsty," you might note. Never fear--here's a light treat, just because (but also because it really is important to the story, I swear).
> 
> Also...not to be patronizing, but if you're not familiar with bocce ball (or at least the lawn version), here's a quick (extremely bare bones) explanation: two teams with a set number of balls. The first ball, aka the pallino, is tossed onto the lawn. The point is to toss/roll your own ball as close to the pallino as possible (points are based on how close/which team's is closest/etc). You can even knock the pallino away from the other team's balls, if you've got enough aim/skill.

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

For the first time, the day’s docket had absolutely no actual events scheduled. Eist felt a measure of relief at the thought. Yesterday, once they’d returned from the luncheon and Visindra could see that everyone was alive and unharmed, the sense of tension had left the air. But Eist had still noted that Alcise and the queen were absent from dinner again, and when he saw her at the usual evening debrief, she looked particularly exhausted, as if perhaps the morning’s constant smiling and charming had drained her. He could understand that, completely.

Today, breakfast was a pleasant affair. Alcise and Visindra did not attend, and Duny was off as well—more horseback lessons, Pavetta had explained. With no schedule to oversee, Triss and Hille were able to simply enjoy a conversation about some television show that they both watched, and somehow, Mousesack got sucked into the conversation, though he’d never seen it.

Halfway through breakfast, the queen arrived. Eist did a slight double-take—it was the first time he’d seen her in pants.

Granted, they were still business attire, high-waisted, wide-legged trousers—but they were still entirely different from her usual pencil skirts, and she moved entirely differently in them as well.

“Morning, all,” she lightly intoned, before turning to the sideboard. Eist rather appreciated the view. She made her plate and moved to the table, her stride much longer without a tight skirt hem to hold her back. Her hair was still in a chignon, but much looser than usual, too. She still wore black pearl earrings and the blouse she’d worn, the day they met, with its silk tie loosely knotted yet again. Perfectly put together and polished, as always.

Still. It was as unsettling as seeing her in pajamas, Eist realized.

Without Visindra and Alcise in their usual spots, she seemed even further away from the rest of the table.

“Where’s your future husband?” She spoke gently, not bothering to look up as she set her plate down and grabbed the empty glass at her place setting. She returned to the sideboard and chose the pitcher of orange juice. Eist found the details of Cintran royal breakfast interesting—his own family were fully staffed at every meal, and his parents, when they ruled, would have never even considered pouring their own drinks.

“Riding lessons,” Pavetta supplied. Then, something in her tone changed, just a little, “Then we’re looking over honeymoon options again.”

The queen merely hummed at that. There was something very pointed in the sound—Eist got the distinct feeling that she didn’t want to hear much more on that subject.

“And what time are you friends arriving?” She easily shifted gears, taking her seat and delicately pulling her napkin into her lap.

“Not til late afternoon,” Pavetta answered. She turned to Eist to explain, “A few friends are stopping by, since this is one of the last obligation-free days I’ll have, before my birthday.”

He nodded in understanding.

“You have the weekend as well,” the queen intoned lightly. She looked up at her daughter and smiled a mysterious smile—one which Pavetta seemed to understand, because she grinned as well.

Mousesack had plans to spend the morning editing photos, so he soon disappeared. Then Triss and Hille filtered away as well.

Eist…may have lingered. Just a little.

Pavetta daintily dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin before setting it on the table and rising to her feet. “I’m off, then. Going to research a few honeymoon options before Duny returns.”

“Best of luck,” the queen replied, sounding completely unenthused. Pavetta planted a kiss atop her mother’s head before exiting the dining room.

A beat of silence passed.

“Enjoying your breakfast, Mr. Tuirseach?” The queen never looked up from her own, but there was an amused arch to her tone.

“Quite,” he returned, just as pleasantly.

“I can only assume you’re still here because you’ve something to say. Are you waiting for me to beg to hear it, or will you spit it out?”

She hit _beg_ with just a breath of innuendo, he didn’t miss it. Still, when she finally looked up at him, her face was the picture of absolute impassive innocence.

 _Please take off the mask_ , he wished.

Instead, he merely stated, “Yesterday’s security protocols. They weren’t just your average precautions.”

She blinked. Waited. Finally drawled, “I’ve yet to hear a question, Mr. Tuirseach. The suspense if _awfully_ killing.”

She was being coy, pushing her tone into an overly dramatic rasp. A deflection. And yet, she didn’t deny his statement. Which meant, in a way, she was being honest.

“What’s going on?” He asked, keeping his gaze firmly locked on hers.

She watched him for a beat. He could sense her weighing her options again, sliding the mental scale on just how much truth she should share. How much she should hide.

Finally, she answered, “This may come as an absolute shock to you, but I am not beloved by all my people. I know, it boggles the mind—to be so effortlessly charming and benevolent, and yet still have detractors.”

She sighed dramatically, slyly sliding her gaze back to him, waiting for him to grin in response.

In that moment, he realized how much she was like her daughter—punching herself with criticism before anyone else could even raise a hand to strike. He found that he couldn’t quite share her droll amusement.

Her expression flickered at his lack of response, but only briefly. She sat up straighter again, resuming a more tired, formal tone, “Threats come and they go. It is part of the territory, unfortunately. And with everyone realizing that Pavetta’s just a breath away from reaching the required age for coronation, a few people have become…impatient.”

He frowned slightly. “You were queen before the required age.”

“Hmm,” she held up a finger, holding the thought until she finished chewing a bite of bacon. “I was _invested_ at fifteen, because of my father’s death—and that required an emergency vote of the King’s Council. But my mother was still regent until my twenty-first birthday.”

In an oddly sour tone, she added, “At least in name, anyways.”

“What does that mean?” He felt a ripple of curiosity.

She looked up, blinking a bit dazedly. “She was not the most...involved as a parent, and even less so as queen regent. Couldn’t be bothered to do anything beyond stamp her signature on legislation and decrees, most the time—not that she actually knew what she was approving, mind you.”

“So…who was running the affairs of the crown?” He wondered aloud.

Something flashed in her expression. He knew the answer: her. A mere child.

He blinked at that, eyebrows lifting incredulously. He tried to imagine his sixteen-year-old niece running a country on her own.

However, she offered, in a deadpan tone, “The Lord Chamberlain was most effective in his role, a kind and supportive man who understood the queen regent’s condition and helped lead the nation through its uncertain time.”

Calanthe frowned slightly as she thought back to those six long years between her father’s death and her official coronation as queen. Lord Stregobor had always been smarmy and slick in a way that had made her uncomfortable, even as a child. Then he’d been far too fatherly towards her, as if he thought he could truly step into the shoes of a Dragon, as if he could put a collar on a Lioness and lead her whichever way he wanted.

He’d probably thought he’d stumbled upon the greatest opportunity of his career—a chance to create his own little puppet queen, to rule the nation through her for decades.

Calanthe had been young, and it had taken her a while to realize his true intentions. But once she had, she disavowed him of such notions rather quickly. She’d reached out to her cousin Alcise, who was six years older and who’d always been like a sister—by the end of that week, Alcise had been fully moved into the palace and standing by Calanthe’s side through every battle.

Thirty years now, and that still hadn’t changed. She smiled softly at the thought.

Then she turned her attention back to the man seated at her table. She felt a flash of chagrin. Why had she told him so much?

It was that face, she decided. So damned open and trusting and trustworthy. It was dangerous.

She steered them back to safer waters, offering a small, almost-smug smile. “I have been playing this game for a long, long time, Mr. Tuirseach. And I will play it longer still.”

“Spoken with quite a lot of certitude,” he observed quietly. He was watching her with a mix of curiosity and…wonderment? Admiration?

She thought of his eyes, that afternoon in the garden. Felt her chest tighten in response. However, she pushed back the sensation and calmly returned, “I have faith. Not just in my self, but in my people. You’ve met both Alcise and Renfri. Can you imagine either of them allowing a single detail, however minute, to chance?”

He considered her question, then grinned, “No, I suppose not.”

She hated when he smiled. It was far too attractive.

With a deep breath, she fixed him with a particularly meaningful stare, “Pavetta is not aware of this…situation. And she will not be made aware of it. Do you understand?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Good. Now do you have any more invasive questions, or can I enjoy my breakfast in peace?”

He sat back, absolutely amused. With a welcoming gesture of his hand, he decreed, “Enjoy away, madame.”

He had no intention of leaving the table, she realized with a flush of irritation. With a sigh, she closed her eyes lightly. “Please tell me that you don’t have some odd fetish for watching women eat.”

He laughed at that, sharp and surprised. She opened her eyes again to see him watching her with that same soft expression.

“I am merely enjoying my coffee, your highness. But if my company displeases you—”

She waved away the rest. “You may stay. Just…don’t stare.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He very pointedly shifted in his seat, angling his body slightly away from her. Almost theatrically, he raised his coffee cup to his lips.

Her cheeks began to twinge from her efforts to hold back a smile at his antics. _Arse_ , she thought warmly.

They didn’t speak again. The silence was absolutely pleasant.

Eist rose to his feet when she did, following her out into the corridor. The feeling of him so close behind was unsettling, but not unwelcome. She shifted to one side of the hallway and he countered, moving over and forward so that they were walking side-by-side.

“Have you decided to shadow me throughout the day then?” She drawled.

“As delightful as the idea sounds”—and truly, he did sound quite intrigued at the thought— “I’m afraid I must return to my own affairs for the morning.”

She gave a slight noise of interest at that. “Does this mean we’ll soon see a first draft?”

“Patience, your highness,” he returned. There was almost a teasing note to his tone.

She glanced over with a slow arch of her brow. He read the warning clearly enough, and grinned anyways.

“Do you always delight in being irritating?” She asked, before she could stop herself.

“Not always,” he conceded. She understood the rest: _But I do delight in irritating you_.

She didn’t dare look into his eyes again. Instead, she harrumphed and doubled her pace. He easily caught up, just long enough to both prove a point and politely declare, “Good day to you, your highness.”

“Good day to you, good sir,” she waved him off as she passed the staircase. She heard the quick, steady pulse of his footsteps, hurrying up the stairs. She felt a measure of relief.

Still, it had been a lovely morning, she decided.

* * *

The rest of the day was rather uneventful, though Eist appreciated the change of pace. His room had been supplied with a writing desk and a ridiculously comfortable chair—he opened some of the windows, enjoying the light scent of the sea on the breeze, and set to work. He had lunch brought up to his room, thoroughly loving the solitude.

After a few hours, he heard laughter from outside. He got up and moved closer to the windows, which overlooked the gardens and grounds at the back of the palace.

The eastern wing, which was the one facing the gardens, had a beautiful view. Along the length of the entire wing ran a wide patio, at various points set with chairs and chaises and large potted plants. The patio had three shallow steps leading into the grounds. To his left, the maze of garden paths. To the right, a large open pitch. Beyond the pitch, the land rolled downhill, into a small fruit orchard and the royal beehives farther out. All beautifully verdant and meticulously maintained.

Currently, it was a picture of the perfect summer afternoon. The pitch was being used for a game of croquet—Pavetta, Duny, and two other young women were milling around, laughing and occasionally putting their way through the brackets. On one section of the patio, a long table was being set for an outdoor dinner. Directly below him, Visindra and Hille were occupying some chaise lounges, chatting and smiling. He could hear the first light notes of music.

Pavetta looked up, noticing him in the window. She waved and yelled up, “Come down, Mr. Tuirseach! And bring Mr. Moussek!”

He gladly obeyed, finding himself a bit delighted at the idea of an afternoon in the sun.

The two journalists were quickly introduced to the two newcomers: Coral and Fringilla, childhood friends of Pavetta, both children of ambassadors.

“I’m afraid I truly am the only commoner here,” Duny admitted with a feigned sense of woe. The others merely laughed and rolled their eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard exactly how you two did meet,” Eist admitted, motioning between the princess and her fiancé.

Pavetta nodded to Fringilla, currently taking a sip of her cocktail. “Fringilla introduced us. A bit accidentally. She and I…might have snuck out to meet some of her friends from university—”

“Let’s not say that too loudly,” Fringilla suggested. “I’m still not sure your mother’s forgiven me.”

Pavetta laughed at that. Then she smiled back at her fiancé, “And Duny was one of them. And we just…clicked.”

“Did you know who she was, at the time?” Eist asked. He noted that Fringilla and Coral wandered off, back to the croquet game.

Duny shook his head, “Not a clue. I mean, I figured she was some kind of socialite or the daughter of a dignitary, since she was Fringilla’s friend, but—no. She was just over eighteen and at the time, practically no one knew what she looked like. We kept chatting on the phone, but she kept making excuses, every time I asked her on a proper date.”

“Of course, eventually I did have to reveal all,” she grinned. “And…then we figured out how to make it work. And we have done, for almost three years now.”

Three years, Eist marveled. When you’re young, it seems like such a long time to know someone.

He couldn’t imagine even _considering_ getting engaged to someone he’d only dated for three years—much less marrying them long before that.

 _Sometimes, when you know, you know._ Oddly enough, it was Sibba’s voice echoing in his head.

Fringilla called to Duny, reminding him that it was his turn again, and he hurried off to rejoin the game. Pavetta chatted with Eist and Mousesack for a few more minutes before drifting back to her friends as well. Mousesack, who of course had brought his camera, moved closer to the pitch, striking up a conversation with Triss, who was watching on the sidelines with a drink.

A cocktail bar of sorts had been set up, on a section of paved stones between the pitch and steps to the patio. Eist ordered a drink, and then decided upon a leisurely stroll through the gardens. He waved to grab Mousesack’s attention, signaling which way he was headed. Mousesack merely nodded, going back to chatting with Triss.

Eist glanced around. The entire first floor of the eastern wing was little more than long sets of open windows and double glass doors, all leading either to the library, or the small open foyer, or the drawing room that he and Mousesack had met Pavetta in, for the first time.

Just then, the set of doors leading out of the foyer opened and Alcise appeared, offering a warm smile in greeting to Visindra and Hille, still installed in the chaise lounges in front of the library’s windows. They halted their conversation long enough to greet her. They were all, like their queen, much more comfortably dressed than usual.

They were all here, instead of with the queen, he noted. He wondered if that meant she’d join them soon, too. He took a sip of his drink and continued on to the gardens.

He let himself get lost in the maze for a while, strolling and sipping and enjoying the light breeze that kept the summer air from being too oppressive. Thankfully the city of Cintra was near the sea, which meant it stayed cooler than most of the continent.

He found his way back to the main path, deciding it was time to rejoin the others.

The sound of footsteps made him pause, turn to look over his shoulder.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. The queen.

He gave a slight bow of greeting. She almost rolled her eyes at that, but seemed to stop herself. Instead, she reached for his drink, “What’s that?”

She took it before he answered, downing the rest, and then grimacing. “Oh, gods above, that’s awful.”

“That’s because it’s set to my tastes, not yours,” he pointed out, gingerly taking the glass back. He wanted to laugh at her unpredictability. It was somehow charming. Definitely fascinating.

The glass now had the crescent arc of her lipstick imprinted on one side. He stared at it, just a beat longer.

“Apologies,” she delicately wiped the corners of her mouth. “But I need all the help I can get to deal with young ones all night. Truth be told, I should have started drinking before I left my office.”

He felt a ripple of delight at the confirmation that she would be with them, the rest of the evening. He’d seen the staff setting up a table on the patio—it was shaping up to be a festive evening. The idea of her company, without any professional obligations attached, only added to the feeling.

Calanthe spared a glance at him, once she was certain that he wouldn’t be looking right back at her. Heat flooded her chest, and it wasn’t from the alcohol—it was from realizing, due to her ridiculously impulsive decision to down his drink, that she now knew exactly how he would taste, if she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

Why had she done it? It was…gauche. A bit boorish, even for her. It was like she had no control of herself.

And she wanted to add alcohol to the mix. Great Mother help her, she truly had some kind of death wish.

But he’d been standing there, so delighted to see her, so…relaxed and open, and she’d wanted to _take_ —something, anything, even something as small as his drink. Wanted to see just how far he’d let her push, just how far she could go, in some small way.

He’d merely smiled and let her. As if she had every right. As if he expected nothing less—and wanted nothing less, either.

She’d be fine, once they weren’t alone. She looked up at him, shifting a little further to the side as they walked on, putting a little more distance between them, making it just a little safer.

He felt her scrutiny and looked over, mildly confused and more than a bit curious.

“How’s your aim?” She asked.

* * *

Despite her previous groaning at dealing with the younger ones, Calanthe was in the thick of it, Eist realized with a grin. She’d immediately downed two drinks and then declared it was time to set up for bocce ball. The youngsters cheered—evidently, this wasn’t the first time they’d played that game with the queen.

“Triss, with me,” she declared, nodding to her lady-in-waiting. She toed off her heels and pulled her knee-length stockings off as well before padding across the pitch barefoot. “We’ll show them how it’s done.”

“Absolutely, madame,” Triss smiled warmly.

Pavetta quickly took Fringilla’s hand, “Then Fringilla’s with me. You can’t have all the best players.”

“Chopped liver over here." Duny held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. His fiancée merely laughed.

“Coral,” Calanthe pointed to the other young woman.

“Oh, so we’re going to pit friends against each other then?” Pavetta decreed. She glanced over at the sidelines, where the rest of her mother’s ladies now stood, eager to get a better view of the upcoming game, “Alcise, I need you.”

With a light sigh, Alcise acquiesced.

“Traitor,” Calanthe called softly. Eist bit back a laugh. Then she grinned smugly at her daughter, “Then I’ve got Duny.”

The young man laughed at that—and at Pavetta’s light noise of protest. “You should have picked me first, darling!”

“Fine,” Pavetta set her hands on her hips. She glanced over to the sidelines. Mousesack’s slightly terrified expression took him out of the running immediately. Visindra and Hille both waved off her quizzical glances. She finally reached Eist, “Mr. Tuirseach, will you play?”

“It’s been ages,” he confessed. “But I’ll give it a go.”

He slowly walked across the pitch to join the princess’ team. He glanced over to see the queen watching him with an unreadable expression.

The queen pulled rank and demanded that her team pitch first. It was so predictable that Eist found himself chuckling.

She shifted back a bit, turn to face him more fully and offer a simple arch of her brow. He also noticed that her current angle meant that her look was half-shielded from the others. Meant for him and him alone.

Gods help him, he immediately wanted to do whatever it took to earn it again.

But he restrained himself, bringing his focus back onto the game. He hadn’t lied, earlier—it had been years since he’d played with Sibba and her children during a holiday on An Skellig. The rules were still simple enough to follow—it was just remembering exactly how to perfect his aim, so that he could toss the ball as close to the target as possible.

Calanthe, obviously, had been playing consistently during those years, he could tell. She leaned forward, lightly holding the bocce ball in her ball as she rocked back on her heel and swung into a toss. It hit the pallino at the center, knocking it closer to her team’s other balls.

“Oh, no fair!” Pavetta wailed.

Her mother cackled at that. “Literally the point of the game, my sweet.”

She was adorably smug, Eist thought. Grinning as she swaggered her way back to the sidelines, where her third drink waited on a small side table.

Those pants did wonders for her, he decided. Her skirts framed the curve of her hips but didn’t do nearly as much for showing off her actual figure like these did. Along with giving the illusion of legs for days.

It was a bit of an illusion, which had only just been broken, now that she was out of her heels. Granted, Eist had seen her out of them, that afternoon in the garden, but he’d never seen her _standing_ without them. She was an easy four inches shorter.

She turned back to watch the game, and Eist caught her eye. He lifted his own drink in toast.

She didn’t return the gesture. But she held his gaze as she took a long, leisurely sip of her drink. Then she set it back down with a soft smile and rejoined her team. Alcise sidled up to her. They had a low, inaudible exchange, and the queen laughed at something, soft and rippling. It was a lovely sound, he decided.

The queen’s team inevitably won. Though the princess’ prevailed in the second match. Then dinner was served and promises of a final deciding match afterwards were made.

Dinner was pleasant and light. Wisely, Calanthe decided to stop drinking at that point—mainly because she wanted to stay sober enough to win the final match.

The last dregs of twilight were fading fast by the time the final game—which had been filled with large swaths of playful heckling and smug triumphs from both sides—came to an end.

One of the staff brought out flashlights, which Calanthe and Pavetta used to view the entire collection of bocce balls, arguing over whose was closest to what (it was an extremely close match, this time). Eventually a few others walked over to weigh in—and then, in the end, it was Calanthe and Eist on their hands and knees, leaning over to be eye-level with the balls. She held the flashlight as he used his hand to measure the distance on a particularly tough call.

“Your finger twitched,” Calanthe informed him.

“It did not. I’ll have you know I have very steady hands.”

He hadn’t meant it as an innuendo, but she gave a low, barely audible hum all the same. He ducked his head slightly, laughing softly.

“Now your hand definitely twitched,” she decreed triumphantly. She was much more languid, most likely from the alcohol. Also much closer. The tops of their heads were nearly touching as they laid them down on the pitch again, to get a better angle.

“Alright, then use _your_ hand,” he retorted.

“Can’t. Mine are far too small and dainty.”

He laughed again.

“I don’t much think I like the incredulity in your tone, good sir.”

“Forgive me, madame.”

“Measure the distance in my favor, and I’ll consider it.”

There was an odd, bubbly feeling in his chest. She was a delight, he decided. This was still a role she played, to some extent—she was performing for her daughter’s friends sometimes, he could sense, in some small way. But it was also probably less of a mask than she usually wore. And right now, they were practically alone. Everyone else had retreated to the bar for another round of drinks.

Even if it were all an act, he decided, at least it was an enjoyable one.

He pressed his lips together and concentrated on keeping his hand perfectly still as he marked the distance again.

“Right.” He announced. Then faltered. “But…how do we compare it…?”

She began to chuckle softly at that. “Hang on. Don’t move, _at all_.”

He obeyed. She held the flashlight closer, lining up the bottom with his thumb and marking the width by placing her index finger on the spot his own finger touched.

“Excellent,” he pronounced. Then he set to measuring the other ball.

He went to measure it against the queen’s mark on the flashlight.

“Remember whose team you’re on!” Pavetta called out from the bar.

He lined it up. His fingertip touched the queen’s.

She swore at that. He rolled onto his back and laughed.

“What is it?” Pavetta asked.

“A bloody tie!” Her mother shouted back as she sat up, obviously irate.

“It’s perfect,” Eist decreed.

“It absolutely isn’t. I don’t _do_ ties.”

He hummed at that. “Why am I not surprised?”

She pretended not to hear. Instead, she pushed herself onto her feet. Then she stepped a little closer, taking a beat to simply look down into his face.

“Just remember,” she lowered her voice. “You should have cheated.”

“In whose favor?” He cocked his head slightly, not entirely unhappy at the sight of her hovering over him.

A sly grin slipped over her features. He knew she’d never answer.

Instead, she merely turned away with a breezy, careless air, padding across the grass with slightly more sway to her hips than necessary.

 _You’ll be glad to see the back of me_ , she’d promised. She hadn’t been wrong. He focused on getting to his own feet, trying to remind his eyes to find more respectful places to rest. Then he made his way to everyone else at the bar.

Calanthe wanted another drink, desperately. Anything to push back and numb the feeling swirling in her veins. Oh, the things she would have done, if they were alone—silently, she thanked the gods that they hadn’t been (but maybe, also, just a little, she cursed them, too).

But she did have some modicum of dignity to retain. She’d already let herself get a bit too playful as it was. Some of it was the alcohol. Some of it was just the man.

It was fine, she told herself. Tomorrow, she’d leave for two days with Pavetta, Duny, her ladies, and Fringilla—a weekend getaway that would be the last moment of respite and relaxation before Pavetta’s birthday, investiture, and wedding. In fact, it was the one thing Pavetta had requested, as her birthday present—a weekend away from the palace.

Mousesack and Eist would be given the option to stay at the palace, or retire to a hotel for those two days. Either way, she’d have some much-needed distance from the man. Then, once they returned, the remaining week would be an absolute whirlwind, with no real reason for them to see each other aside from the evening debriefs.

Oh, shit, she’d forgotten tonight’s debriefing—it would have to wait until they returned, because she wasn’t sober enough to handle it now, and Visindra had retired after dinner, along with Alcise, whose sister had taken her spot on the princess’ bocce team.

Just as well, she decided.

She took a moment to steady herself, scooping up her abandoned stockings and gingerly slipping into her heels again. Pavetta quietly came up beside her, looping her arm through Calanthe’s as they quietly walked back to the palace.

“I want them to come with us, this weekend,” she announced quietly.

“Who?” Calanthe asked, a bit numbly. That third drink was hitting harder than it usually did, she realized—the stress and lack of sleep over the past week probably hadn’t helped.

“Mr. Tuirseach and Mr. Moussek.”

“But, darling—it’s a family thing,” Calanthe reminded her. Her pulse quickened, just a bit.

“Oh, but they’re such fun,” Pavetta insisted. “And if this is supposed to be a _true_ portrait of me, then shouldn’t they be going along anyways? It’s not like you can’t ensure they don’t spill our deep dark family traditions.”

Calanthe frowned slightly at that. While Pavetta had a point, it still made her uneasy. But in the end, it boiled down to one glaring truth: “It is your decision, of course.”

“Good. Then it’s decided,” Pavetta beamed. She squeezed her mother’s arm a bit tighter. “You won’t regret it.”

“Oh, I assure you, I already do.”

Her daughter merely laughed, and pulled her in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

She should have said no, Calanthe realized with a mild flash of terror. But then, of course, she would have had to offer an explanation, and that could have gotten out of hand, quickly—particularly given her current state.

By the time she reached the staircase, slipping out of her heels once more, she was of a different mind.

 _Why not?_ She thought simply. If by the time they got back, they’d all get caught up in a whirlwind that put some much-needed distance between them…why not simply _enjoy_ this last weekend? Why not _lean in_ , just a bit? Have a little harmless flirtation. Let go of the restraint, just a little, just enough to feel some sense of satisfaction.

She smiled in smug approval of her plan. Yes. The whole weekend, they’d be surrounded by other people. It wouldn’t go too far. It would still be safe—or safe enough. She could reach her hand out, just a bit. Feel the heat of the fire and still not get burned.

Then she could retreat, once they returned. It wasn’t vastly different from her original plan, she decided. Besides, it was supposed to be a vacation, a little weekend holiday away from her own life, right? Why couldn’t this be part of it—pretending, just for a moment, that she was just an ordinary woman, having an ordinary flirtation with an ordinary man?

Yes, it would work quite nicely, she decided with a curt nod as she breezed into her private chambers. She immediately slipped out of her clothes and collapsed into bed, practically willing herself to sleep within minutes.

Granted, she was exhausted. But there was another reason for shutting her mind off as soon as possible—Calanthe had a rule in life. Once she slept on a decision, it was as good a made.

With one last hazy smile, she affirmed her plan. For the next two days, she could have her cake and eat it, too.

* * *

Pavetta was practically radiating with glee. She had half-expected her mother to refuse the request. But the surprising acceptance only further confirmed Pavetta’s suspicions: her mother enjoyed having Mr. Tuirseach around.

Pavetta had first really noticed it, during dinner tonight. Mr. Tuirseach had been telling some story to everyone at the table, making wild gestures with his hands and sending Coral into a fit of giggles. Pavetta had glanced over at Calanthe, who was leaned forward, one elbow propped on the table as her fingertips lightly covered her mouth, thoroughly entranced by his tale. Her eyes had been dark and soft and completely glued to the man.

It had been a bit of shock, seeing her mother look at someone like that. Pavetta had spent the rest of the evening, looking for more clues. The final straw had been watching the two idiots practically laying in the grass as they measured the distance between the bocce balls, both so focused on winning.

Her mother had been grinning, the entire time. Practically glowing with delight. Pavetta hadn’t been able to hear the conversation, but it was rather obvious that flirting was happening.

She deserved happiness, Pavetta thought. Deserved to be this joyful and at-ease, all the time. A rough and rowdy journalist seemed like an odd solution, but her mother had never been a conventional woman. And after all, hadn’t Pavetta herself found love in an unlikely place? And look how wonderful it had turned out, for her.

She grinned again as she moved back to the remaining members of the evening. Duny held out her glass, which he’d taken whenever she hurried after her mother. She took it back with a grateful smile and moved towards the two journalists.

Her mother would thank her for this, one day.


	15. Already Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So heads up, gang: I know AO3 was/maybe still is having some issues with notification emails, and my tumblr update posts can get lost in the shuffle as well, so I'm trying to stick to the following posting schedule: Sundays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, usually between 5-9pm PST (California).

**Montclair, Lower Sodden.**

Yennefer wasn’t sure what to expect, going to the house of a retired paparazzo—but it certainly wasn’t whatever she found.

The house itself was small. Tidy. Well-maintained. There was a lovely moss lawn in the back, and a rather large shed—which Dom Diria led her to, once they’d shaken hands and formally introduced themselves.

The outside of the shed was a bit worn down—but the inside was immaculate. A shrine to his life’s work, as it were.

Dom seemed to take pride in the rather unpleasant aspects of his career—all along the wall were framed cease-and-desist letters from various celebrities, official orders from heads of state. _At least he truly loves what he does, I guess?_ She thought with a slight shrug. While she often staked out and stalked people as well for work, her targets were actually doing things that needed to be brought to light—not some television star trying to grab donuts with their children, or some countess just trying to enjoy a day at the beach. She couldn’t see the appeal of such a life, constantly pulling back the curtain and invading someone’s attempts at having a sense of normalcy.

“So,” he grabbed an envelope from the long wooden table that ran the length of one wall. “These are the ones you requested. But I…took the liberty of developing a few others, too.”

She perked up a bit at that. He noticed and grinned. He shuffled further down the table, grabbing another large envelope. “These photos are quite special. Because these photos have only been seen by two people in the world. Me, and the queen herself.”

Yennefer’s eyes widened. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I sent them to her. And afterwards, a gentleman came knocking at my door. He paid me a pretty penny for the negatives, and any copies I had.”

“Except you didn’t give him everything,” she concluded, feeling both a measure of admiration and repulsion. The man’s lack of integrity might help her, but it also rankled, a bit.

“I was always a bit worried the queen might…retaliate, in some way,” he shrugged. “It seemed wise, to keep them as insurance.”

“And now?”

“Now…it’s been ages, and no one’s ever come again. It seems safe.”

She merely nodded in understanding. “Well, thank you, sir.”

She didn’t open the envelopes yet. There was something odd about Dom. This…almost gleeful delight that was a bit unsettling.

Yes, for all the similarities in their professions, they were not the same type of people, Yennefer realized. Still, she paid the man his fee and quickly retreated to her rental car.

Just as expected, she knew it when she saw it.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

The queen wore pants, again. Eist was fairly certain he’d never paid so much attention to the details of a woman’s wardrobe (or a man’s, for that matter) in all of his life. She also wore flats and a sleeveless blouse, which was a novelty with surprising revelations—the queen was quite fit, Eist realized, taking in the muscles of her arms as she sat at the table, both wrists propped against the edge. And beyond the mere fitness of a healthy diet—she worked out, quite regularly and quite intensely, by the looks of it.

The relaxed attire was obviously in anticipation of their departure later in the morning. Last night, Pavetta had invited them to come along for a weekend in the desert, whatever that meant. The princess had been intentionally vague, in a playful way, and Eist had been instantly intrigued. Mousesack had also agreed, mainly because if Eist was going, then he wasn’t staying in the palace by himself.

Pavetta had given them a packing list, and of course, it had taken Eist all of five minutes to prepare. Apparently, weekends in the desert were far more relaxed—Pavetta had decreed absolutely no dress clothes (Mousesack had nearly fainted with relief at the idea), and only shoes that were good for running and walking long distances. It sounded rather outdoorsy, and Eist was excited at the thought.

He couldn’t imagine where they were going, though. Cintra had several different climate regions, but none even remotely considered a desert.

While yesterday’s brief moment alone with the queen at breakfast was lovely, he wasn’t actively trying to repeat it—and yet, it seemed to slowly shift in that direction anyways. The queen’s ladies were all upstairs finishing their packing. Mousesack, Duny, and Fringilla left the table as well.

Now it was just him, the queen, and the princess. He focused on simply finishing his breakfast—he didn’t want the queen to feel as if he were lingering on purpose, didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable at the thought that he was seeking her out so pointedly. He wasn’t the desperate sort, never had been—and besides, as fun as the new air to their interactions had become, nothing could come of it, so why press for more?

“Did you know that having more sex increases your brain cell count?” Pavetta asked conversationally, out of nowhere.

Eist nearly choked on his sausage (the irony not being lost on him, in the least).

“Does it?” The queen returned breezily, never looking up from her plate. She’d barely spoken, other than to enquire after everyone’s health after last night’s drinking.

Pavetta hummed in confirmation. After a beat, she wondered aloud, “So…if having sex increases your brain cells… _lack_ of sex would _decrease_ them.”

Now Calanthe reacted—Eist saw the way her hand stuttered, slicing into her eggs benedict.

“That’s not how science works and you know it,” Calanthe returned in a low tone. “Or at least you should, for the education we gave you—though the fault certainly wouldn’t be on your tutors.”

Pavetta blinked at the barb. Eist felt a measure of sympathy for the girl—hell, Calanthe still hurt _his_ feelings half the time, and he was a full-grown adult with no emotional connection to her whatsoever (absolutely none, he reminded himself).

However, Pavetta recovered with a slight shrug. “Well, I’ve seen some evidence to prove otherwise. People who haven’t gotten laid in a long time certainly _do_ act as if they’ve lost a few brain cells.”

Calanthe stopped to let her eyes fully flick heavenward. That was her only response. With a slight smirk, Pavetta rose to her feet.

Calanthe cleared her throat, gently grabbing her attention as she moved for the door. Eist watched in fascination—the queen never looked up, never moved a muscle, but the princess came back, bestowing a quick, yet somehow gentle, kiss on her mother’s cheek.

“Away, brat.” Calanthe’s tone was in complete opposition to her words, soft and tinged with amusement. “You won’t win today, but I admire the effort.”

Now Pavetta grinned widely, practically skipping out of the room.

Eist could witness that scene a hundred times and still have no clue what just fucking happened.

Sensing his confusion (despite the fact that she still hadn’t glanced at him, since her arrival), she raised her voice slightly, as if he were further down the table.

“She wants security clearance for—and I quote— _the hottest fucking honeymoon the world has ever seen_.”

“Seems reasonable.” He shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance. That explained the odd exchange over honeymoon planning, the morning before.

She gave a snort at that. “It includes a lot of nude beaches along the coast of Metinna. I’m not sure I can morally allow my security team to follow her to such a location.”

With a slight shake of her head, she added, “Pavetta, of course, sees no problem with it. No issue with her bare arse being splashed across every tabloid rag from here to Redania, either.”

Eist hummed at that.

There was another low, incredulous huff from the queen, who shook her head softly. “Apparently it makes me a prude and the world’s most unromantic soul.”

He noted an odd tone to her words. Almost…stung, he thought. However, he chose a safer route, quietly decreeing, “I won’t lie, moments like this really make me glad that I never had children of my own.”

She grinned at that, the first genuine smile he’d seen all morning.

“I do recommend avoiding them when you can,” she drawled. Then, with a careless air, she set her utensils down and took a sip of her juice. “And for the record, despite my daughter’s insinuations, I’m well-stocked in that regard.”

“Sex?” He clarified.

“Brain cells,” she deadpanned. The corner of her left eyebrow lifted, minutely. He suddenly understood that she had made a joke… _with_ him, not _at_ him.

There was an invitation to play, contained in her small action. He found himself helpless to resist.

“Well, if you ever need some suggestions…” He held out his hands in a welcoming gesture. “I know some games that…truly challenge the mind.”

Despite the playful air she’d taken on, he still half-expected her to rail at him for the improper tone, the obvious innuendo in his words. However, she didn’t even blink.

“I have my own tricks and puzzles,” she sniffed. She set her juice down and made a flick of her fingers, as if the condensation on her glass was unwelcome and unpleasant.

“And these puzzles…are they meant for more than one person?” Eventually she was going to shut him down completely, but until then, he felt a perverse need to push his luck. To see where the boundary lay.

She looked back up, the lines around her eyes tinged with amusement. She practically purred, “ _Well-stocked_ implies a variety, does it not?”

_Everything and nothing_ , he thought, his mind going back to Tissaia’s warning. _She’ll tell you everything and nothing._

At the time, it had seemed like an obstacle. Now, it seemed like her most endearing trait.

Still, he didn’t want to push too far. Setting his napkin on the table, he shifted to stand, grabbing his coffee to take along.

“Stay.” Her voice was quiet, but it somehow filled the room. “Would you, please?”

For the first time, he actually heard the same respectful tone she often used with Mousesack—entirely directed at _him_.

She was aware, for once, that there was a power imbalance between them—aware and unwilling to abuse it.

A soft sense of wonder blossomed through his chest. He sat back again, realizing that he’d do just about anything she asked, if she used that tone.

“I just…didn’t want to be a bother.” He tried to offer some small form of explanation.

Now a smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “It would be more of a bother if you ended up spilling coffee on the carpet as you ran around my palace, unchecked and unsupervised.”

He grinned at that. “Valid point, your majesty.”

She blinked suddenly, as if remembering something. Then quickly poured all of her focus into cutting her breakfast, as if her life depended on it. In an almost-bored tone, quick and concise, she said, “There is a rule, for these trips—once we depart the palace, all titles and formalities are dropped. For the weekend, you may call me Calanthe.”

With a flutter of surprise, Eist realized that, sometimes, he already mentally referred to her as such—not _her highness_ , not _the queen_. Just Calanthe. Still, a formal invitation to do so aloud seemed…monumental, in some way.

“Then you must return the favor,” he pointed out. She looked up, slightly confused. He held out his hands. “I’m simply Eist. For the weekend only, of course.”

A slow, pleased smile melted across her features. “Of course.”

She ducked her head and continued her breakfast. He focused on his coffee.

Again, they didn’t speak anymore. And again, it was absolutely pleasant, Calanthe decided.

* * *

**The Training Dunes, Cintra.**

They left the palace by helicopter, only adding to the sense of mystery. Aside from the queen and her ladies, it was Eist, Mousesack, Duny, Pavetta, and her friend Fringilla, with Renfri and Danek tagging along as well. They split the group between three helicopters. Pavetta had practically herded Eist into hers, which also included Calanthe and Renfri.

They’d traveled for nearly two hours. And then, Eist had seen an interesting shift on the eastern horizon. He realized that he’d been wrong—technically, Cintra did have deserts. Just…man-made ones.

He craned his neck, taking in the whole complex below. They were approaching some kind of military training ground, one designed for desert warfare.

“Not the spa you were expecting?” Calanthe’s voice filled his headset, warm with knowing.

He glanced over at her, still sitting calmly beside him, not bothering to look out the window. He merely grinned in response.

“We used to run training exercises here, during the war with Nilfgaard,” she explained, folding her hands in her lap. “Five acres of sand and scrub, all imported from Korath. You can imagine how hellacious the creation process was.”

“Five acres?” He was impressed.

She nodded. “A full village for soldiers to run clearing protocols, plus the dunes for driving condition training.”

From the other side of Calanthe, Pavetta leaned over, grinning at him in delight—obviously, thanks to her own headset, she’d heard every word. She knew that he was surprised by the choice of locale.

He couldn’t help but play to her glee, motioning out the window with an air of incredulity, “And this is where you wanted to spend your weekend?”

“It’s fun,” she informed him. For the first time, she looked like her mother when she smiled.

“I’m afraid you’re about to see an entirely different side to my daughter,” Calanthe drawled. Still, he could practically feel the pride radiating from her. Though she cut him another quick glance, “All entirely off the record, of course.”

That had been Calanthe’s one requirement. Pavetta had begged to let Mousesack still take photos, and she’d agreed—so long as those photos didn’t actually give away anything about the location or any details of the trip itself. And Eist wasn’t allowed to include anything from the weekend in his article at all.

He held up his hand in the sailor’s pledge, a symbol of oath-making. Despite not being Skelligen, she obviously recognized it, because she smiled again.

Pavetta leaned across her mother, pointing to the landscape visible outside of Eist’s window. The movement also pushed Calanthe further into Eist, her bare arm pressing up against his sleeved one. There was an odd sensation of warm softness against his skin, and he tried not to concentrate on it. He could feel the quick stiffening of her body—obviously she was highly-aware of their touching, too.

Pavetta, however, was oblivious as she happily chattered on, “Right so. Directly below is the main valley, where you can see the village Mother mentioned.”

His eyes scanned the area. The complex had been built in a naturally hilly area, which helped create the small valley, where the village rested—he guessed at least fifty houses, all arranged in a winding series of alleys and side streets. They were currently flying over a paved road that ran around the rim of the valley—further north, he saw the driving dunes, and to the east, where they were heading, a collection of large, white canvas tents, pitched atop the highest hill.

“That’s base camp,” Pavetta motioned towards the tents. “Just over the hill, there’s a smaller, private complex. Showers, restrooms, saunas—a swimming pool, too, if you brought a swimsuit like I told you. A fully-stocked and -staffed kitchen for all our meals, open from six am til midnight. The Royal Stables at Cinnica are just a few miles south, so if you get the urge to go horseback riding over the dunes, they can have someone bring some horses up for you.”

This was definitely not the sort of camping that Eist was used to, he realized. Of course, his own family had had their own weirdly excessive holiday trips—it wasn’t until he was an adult that he had realized how different they were from the reality of most people’s lives.

But then again, even after he left the royal life, his own path was still quite different from the reality that so many knew. With a wry, grin, he simply accepted that perhaps he just wasn’t built for convention.

“Does our excess amuse you?” Calanthe guessed, pulling his attention back over his shoulder. It was almost too much, looking into her eyes while sitting so close.

“It reminds me of home,” he admitted simply. “Or at least my childhood.”

Her lips parted, one corner of her mouth rising in slow, wry amusement.

“The lost prince remembers his roots.” She drawled raspily, her voice curling like smoke around the corners of her words. She was utterly mocking him, and he shouldn’t be as mesmerized by it as he was.

Eist was watching her mouth with a lazy curiosity and Calanthe was trying not to blush under the realization. How was it that _she_ teased _him_ , and yet she was the one feeling flustered?

“Oh, that’s right,” Pavetta piped up, dragging Eist’s attention away from her mother’s lips. “Does this make you miss the perks of royal life?”

“Oh gods.” He feigned mild terror. “Did Bran put you up to this? He’s been trying to pull me back in for ages.”

Calanthe laughed at that, a bit too loud and sharp for the headsets.

Pavetta sat back slightly, and Calanthe shifted in response. Eist immediately missed the weight of her against him.

“I assure you, I do not discuss such things with your brother,” Calanthe’s tone was wry.

“What do you discuss with him?” He was mildly curious.

She looked over at him again. “It’s my weekend off. No work talk for me.”

He grinned at that.

The pilot’s voice interrupted, “Alright, everyone. We’re making our descent now.”

Calanthe’s hands twisted together and her eyes closed briefly as she turned her head to face the front of the aircraft. She had a mild bout of motion-sickness, Eist realized. That was why she wasn’t looking out the window.

Once they were on the ground, everyone removed their headsets and slowly began to clamber out. Calanthe waved everyone else out first. The moment Eist’s feet touched the ground, he turned back to help her out—only to realize that Renfri was already there, holding her hand.

Pavetta crossed the tarmac, reuniting with Duny and Fringilla. Everyone else followed suit, converging into a group as they sorted bags and exchanged a few comments on the journey.

Calanthe rummaged around in her own bag—a military issue rucksack, Eist noted with a flutter of amused surprise—and pulled out a glasses case. She donned the aviator shades that were inside.

Great God of the Sea, she immediately looked a thousand times more smug and condescending, and that much hotter, too.

Two large flat-bed jeeps rumbled up, and everyone turned in their direction. The lead jeep’s driver hopped out—he was wearing fatigues, but Eist could still make out the insignia on his shoulder. High-ranking, easily enough.

Calanthe moved forward to meet him. Once they were both closer, they stopped to exchange salutes.

It was in that moment that Eist realized the queen actually had military training. She’d promised him a look at another side of Pavetta, but he felt the promise was equally valid on her behalf, and they hadn’t been here five minutes.

“General Amurra, sir,” Calanthe snapped to attention.

“At-ease, Captain.” He gave a slight nod, and a smaller smile. She obeyed and they fell into step, coming closer to the group. “Well, I see we have a few new faces with us today.”

Introductions were made, and General Amurra officially welcomed them all to the training grounds. Eist liked him immediately. He had a deep, pleasant voice, and a face whose severe features were overlain with a kindly expression.

He knew Pavetta quite well, that much was obvious. And he apparently knew the rules of the weekend, too—he didn’t refer to Calanthe by her royal title, though he did still call her by her rank, which Eist found amusing (he also realized that her rucksack wasn’t a fashion choice—she’d come by it honest, she’d earned it, and she lugged it around with absolute pride).

Soon everyone’s bags were loaded onto the jeeps, and people got in where they fit it. Calanthe slid in the front seat, with General Amurra. Renfri apparently knew the driver of the other jeep, whom the General had briefly introduced as his aide Ezondre, and climbed in with her, chattering away happily. It was the first time Eist had seen Renfri at-ease.

It only confirmed his suspicions about the head of security—she was former military, through and through.

Eist turned in his seat, leaning further over the side of the jeep to get a better view as they followed the paved road along the top of the ridge.

“Home, for the next two days,” Visindra leaned in, raising her voice to be heard over the wind rushing past their ears.

He grinned. This was more what he was used to, anyways. He looked over at her with a slight frown, “What do you do here?”

Her nose scrunched. “We spend the weekend trying to kill each other.”

Mousesack, who overheard the exchange, simply turned to look at Eist and raise his eyebrows. _Remember, when we were back at Aretuza doing research, and you made that quip about the queen taking journalists to hunt for sport? This may be it for us, old friend._

Eist bit back a laugh and merely shook his head. Mousesack was grinning, too. He had relaxed a bit into life at the palace, but he was still far more at-ease now that they were away from it.

They arrived at the campsite and everyone clambered out of the vehicles, unloading their bags and pairing off for sleeping assignments—there were six tents, though Eist thought a single tent could hold all twelve of them, truth be told. Naturally, he and Mousesack chose each other.

General Amurra's aide approached with a sunny smile, extending her hand, “Ezondra Talke, pleased to meet you.”

Eist shook her hand, “Eist—”

“Oh, I know who you are." Her voice was warm, almost coy. “I’ve read every article you've ever written, Mr. Tuirseach. I’m a bit of a fan.”

At the other side of the jeep, Calanthe’s entire body stiffened, immediately on-alert. She knew that tone—hell, anyone with half a brain could decipher its intent.

_You've got to be fucking kidding me_ , she felt an immediate flash of irritation.

She’d just decided last night that she’d allow herself a little vacation, this weekend—a vacation away from expectation or restraint, when it came to Eist and the little spark between them. It was already off to a rather nice start, she thought.

Damn them all to each and every one of the seven hells if she let a pair of perky young tits ruin that plan.

Little Miss Talke could have the man, any other day of the year, anytime she wanted from here to eternity. But for the next two days, Calanthe wanted to be the sole recipient of his attention and flirtation.

Calanthe Fiona Riannon had never been the type who could win a man over with a smile and some flattering words (honestly, she’d rather fucking choke). Yet she'd never had any issue pulling someone into her bed—not that she was ever going to let it get that far, mind you. But she knew her own strengths, and how to play to them.

She shucked her bag over her shoulder, took a deep breath to push back the aggravation at hearing Miss Talke’s voice prattling on, and strolled around the front of the vehicle.

Eist was smiling pleasantly at the young girl. It made Calanthe hesitate, just a second—what if he really did prefer younger women?

_So what if he does?_ Her mind challenged. _He can still play with you, for a little while. He's an inquisitive sort, he'll take the bait, if for no other reason than to better figure you out._

Yes, she was well-aware that the man considered her a puzzle, and was desperate to solve her, for whatever reason. And while she'd never let that happen, she’d at least use it to her advantage.

She remembered his eyes, that afternoon in the garden. Remembered the way he looked up at her last night, while laying out on the pitch. Remembered his gaze today, in the helicopter. There was more than just idle curiosity there, she reminded herself. She just needed to…encourage it, just a little.

He shifted slightly, glancing in her direction. She felt a small ripple of victory.

She set her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side.

“How well can you drive a car, boat boy?”

Eist blinked hard at the moniker, a nice little jab at his homeland's penchant for sailing and all other nautical pursuits. So formalities _and_ politesse were out the window this weekend, he mused wryly.

Even hidden behind her sunglasses, her eyes were watching him with that usual look of lazy feline curiosity, he could tell.

“Well enough,” he returned, shifting a bit more towards her. He could sense a challenge incoming.

“Competitively?” One brow arched.

“I assure you, I can do anything competitively,” he informed her.

She grinned at him—with her eyes hidden, her most prominent feature was now her teeth, sharp and almost dangerous.

Gods above, it was the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

“Then I suggest you get changed. You've got a race to lose.”

* * *

Calanthe tugged the hem of her long-sleeved t-shirt into place, smoothing her hands down the front. It was so fitted, you could probably read the logo on her sports bra underneath, if you stared hard enough. But that was the point. She wanted Eist to stare—and now, given the unpredicted addition of Little Miss Talke, Calanthe was particularly grateful to her former self for choosing to pack this top.

She smoothed her hands over her hair and slipped her sunglasses on again before exiting the tent.

Pavetta, Duny, Triss, and Fringilla had already gone straight to the pool, and if she had to guess, Hille was enjoying the sauna at this point. Alcise, who never flew well, was in her tent recovering. Renfri and Danek were going over some last minute security checks with General Amurra and Miss Talke, most likely (at least that kept her out of the way, Calanthe thought).

She found Eist and Anton—wait, no, he insisted on being referred to as Mousesack for the weekend, which amused her to no end—chatting outside their tent with Visindra.

Great mother, he looked even better now. He'd changed into a looser, more wrinkled linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoo again, and a pair of khaki cargo pants. His hair was completely disheveled from the helicopter ride and the current breeze, and her fingers ached with the need to run through it. She had to ball her hands into fists, just to distract herself.

He did a double-take when he spotted her, and this time, she didn’t hide the smug smile that blossomed across her face in response.

They’d joked about the queen bringing them out here to murder them—but now Eist realized it might be closer to the truth than he could have ever imagined until now.

Because given her (insanely attractive) grin, Calanthe knew exactly what she was doing. He thought back to the women’s committee luncheon, how she’d played to her audience. She had that same sense of knowing smugness now. She knew her audience and knew just how to get the desired response. He shouldn’t be surprised.

Except _he_ was the audience. And she had chosen _this_ , specifically to get some kind of reaction from him.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that, really.

But he could still admit that if she’d been going for _make your weekend guest stare slack-jawed and fish-eyed like an absolute idiot at your wonderful shirt which left very little of your wonderful upper body to the imagination,_ then she truly knocked it out of the park. Points for style, skill, and effort, all around.

It was a (quite) fitted long t-shirt and some olive-green fatigue bottoms—she looked like she was about to run a training exercise, with her aviators and her hair in its sleek collection of braids coiled into a low bun.

She simply stood there for a beat, as if relishing his attention (and gods above, he wasn’t sure what to make of _that_ , either). Then, tilting her chin towards the other side of the encampment, she challenged, “Ready to lose, good sir?”

_No_ , his brain retorted. _I wasn’t ready for this, and I’m already lost._

However, he merely slipped his own pair of sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and donned them before following her out in the bright afternoon sun. She was moving quickly—far quicker than she ever had in her heels—and he had to push himself to catch up. Once he did, she began explaining, “The only rule is that you have to follow the course. Everything else is up for grabs. The vehicles we’re using are military grade; they can handle just about anything. So if you wanna play bumper cars…”

She paused a second to look over at him, the corner of her mouth hooking into a sly grin. He got the distinct feeling that was more of an invitation than a mere suggestion.

He immediately knew he’d play her game. He couldn’t help himself—since they’d set foot on the tarmac, she’d radiated with an almost-gleeful energy. And now she was…playful, in a way that he’d never seen before.

“Actually, there are two more rules." She held up her hand. “You have to wear a helmet, and a seat belt.”

“A helmet?” He felt a wave of confusion.

Again, she grinned. “Trust me. You’ll need it.”

Eist felt another wave of concern once they reached the vehicles. He was fairly certain that the make was something entirely exclusive to Cintran military—boxy but compact, built for two riders with a hard metal top and a roll cage netting inside. The only actual window was the windshield; the rest were merely netted.

The queen’s idea of relaxing weekend fun was vastly different than most people’s, Eist thought.

_Calanthe_ , he corrected himself. He had less than 48 hours to use the privilege, he wasn’t going to waste it.

“Keys are in the seat, under the helmet,” she informed him, heading towards one of the vehicles.

“Where’s the course?” He raised his voice as he countered, moving to the other vehicle.

“We set our own.” She popped open the door and grabbed the helmet. She stepped up onto the vehicle’s running board, hanging onto the roof with one hand as she turned to look over at him. He got the distinct feeling that she liked the height, the sense of towering. “We’ll drive around the rim of the valley, to the other side of the training village. Give you a chance to get a feel for the place and the driving conditions. Then we’ll set the course and the stakes.”

“Stakes?” He echoed, slipping his helmet on.

Again, he was nearly overwhelmed by a dangerous smirk. “There are always stakes, Eist.”

She climbed into the cab and slammed the door. He realized, a bit dumbly, that for the first time ever, she’d called him simply by his first name.

He rather liked the sound of it, on her lips.

* * *

Fortunately, almost all standard military issue vehicles drove the same, and they were the most frequent forms of transport he used on his journalistic travels (and during his military career before that), so the learning curve wasn’t too steep. It definitely drove like military issue—rumbly and rickety and hellacious on the joints. Efficiency over comfort, as always.

Calanthe led the way, driving slowly over the ridge of the hill and slowly pulling into the curve of the valley’s rim. That was a bit unsettling at first, adjusting to the angle, but Eist found that the faster the speed, the easier it was to stay feeling balanced.

Calanthe’s vehicle picked up speed, and Eist followed suit. She waved her hand out the window, as if signaling—then she fishtailed in wide arcs. He mimicked again, and understood the reason—the sand shifted and slid, and he needed to be fully prepared for that. Then she signaled again and gunned it, throwing up a cloud of dust. He understood that as well—if he was driving in her backdraft, he needed to be prepared for low-visibility.

Then she straightened her path again and simply headed down into the valley, letting gravity and the angle of the hill pull the car into a slightly-sideways slide. He couldn’t quite mimic that, but he merely eased up on the gas pedal once the vehicle’s momentum created enough speed on its own. 

The tires crunched as the sand became harder, more compact. Calanthe whipped her car into a wide circle, slowing into park. Eist pulled up along side but facing the other direction, so that they could simply talk from the windows. He unclipped the roll net from the driver side window, noting that she’d already done so.

“Manageable?” She asked, with a touch of concern. And again, he was struck by the dichotomy of the woman. She’d egged him into joining her, and now she seemed almost worried as to whether or not he could actually handle it.

“Piece of cake,” he returned with a careless shrug.

Now she grinned, truly delighted. “Alright, then. Once counterclockwise around the village, back to here, up the ridge and all the way around the rim, ending here again. Good?”

“What are the stakes?” That was the question he’d been dying to ask since the moment she first mentioned it.

She considered. Then, with a grin, she declared, “The loser has to publicly extol the virtues of the winner at dinner. Preferably in a toast. And as maudlinly as possible.”

He laughed in sharp, quick surprise as that. It was delightfully odd—but given what he’d seen of the woman’s pride, high stakes indeed, in her mind.

“Alright,” he agreed. “You’re on.”

She reached up, snapping her roll cage netting back into place. “Start practicing your speech, Tuirseach.”

Then, without warning, she slammed the vehicle into drive and peeled off.

He immediately started laughing. Only three rules, she’d promised—waiting for a proper, fair start to the race wasn’t one of them. He followed suit, punching the gas pedal and whipping the car around as tightly as possible.

He followed the plume of dust easily enough, deciding to wait until they reached the ridge to truly gun it and pull ahead.

Still, he swore that she was toying with him. Pulling back on her speed, giving him a chance to almost catch up before shooting further ahead again. A few times, when he did almost edge towards breaking even with her, she jerked the steering wheel, butting in front of him and cutting him off.

Even without visual confirmation, he knew she was smirking triumphantly, each time.

They made it around the village and she shot straight up the hill again. She cut hard, as if to shoot across the highest point of the ridge.

But the car fishtailed further out—higher, to the top of the hill, the front wheels twisting and churning in the loose sand, unable to regain traction. Then, spinning madly, the entire vehicle disappeared over the other side.

Eist’s stomach dropped. He slammed the gas all the way to the floor, screeching to a halt as he reached the top of the hill.

The far side was even steeper. There was a huge indention in the sand—the vehicle had rolled, _fully_ rolled over, landing right side up again.

But it wasn’t moving. And with the netting, he couldn’t actually see Calanthe at all. He drove as fast as he could on the steep incline, heart pounding with adrenaline. He slammed into park, whipped his helmet off, and bailed out, sprinting over to the vehicle.

“Calanthe!” He called.

No answer.

His heart raced even faster as he threw open the door—to find her breathless with laughter, entire body shaking. “What the—”

“Holy fuck!” she cried, still delighted (and maybe a little delirious from the adrenaline rush, Eist suspected).

“You could have died!” He didn’t mean to shout, but his veins were spiked with adrenaline, his heart still hammering like mad inside his chest.

She looked over at him, expression muting into amused surprise at his reaction. Still, she burst into more laughter. “These things are built for tumbles, Mr.—Eist. Why the fuck d’you think we wear helmets?”

“Tumbles?” He was trying to rein in his anger, but her continued blasé attitude—and her dismissal of his absolutely legitimate concern—seemed to only stoke it. “You _rolled_. A helmet won’t do fuck-all against a snapped neck. Do you really not see how you could have been seriously injured, or do you just have some psychotic death wish?”

“Says the man who goes unarmed into war zones." She leaned in a bit, almost taunting. Except that small movement instantly had her wincing and hissing at the pain shooting through her shoulder.

His mind was made up. “Get out of the car.”

“What?”

“Get out. I’m driving you back to camp. You need to see a medic.”

“Eist—”

“ _Calanthe_ , you were just tossed around inside a five-thousand-pound box like a fucking ragdoll, after shooting off the edge of a fucking cliff while going gods-only-know how fucking fast. You’re going to see a gods-damned medic.”

“Alright, alright, calm your tits.” She sat back, taking a slightly pained breath. Dryly, she noted, “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, when you’re pissed.”

Pushing her luck, she added, “Can’t we just…race back to see the medic? I can still drive perfectly fine, you know, and we could get there faster.”

He took a beat to merely look at her.

He was hot, when he was angry, she thought with a wry grin—a grin which seemed to only make him madder ( _hotter_ ).

Wordlessly, he reached over, unfastening the seatbelt for her.

With all the adrenaline already humming through her body, having him so far in her personal space didn’t help the skittering of her heart or the crackling sense of electricity in her veins. She suddenly remembered that her only rule for this weekend had been to not allow herself to be alone with him—and what was the first thing she’d done? Found a way to be here, alone, with him.

_Woman_ , she chided herself. _You really do have a psychotic death wish._

He stepped back again, still pissed as hell. “Out.”

It took every ounce of self-control not to push back with _make me_ , but he must have read her mind anyways, just a bit, because he shifted slightly, as if absolutely ready to haul her out of the vehicle himself.

She shifted further to the edge of seat, pressing her lips into a thin line to hide the wince of pain that small movement brought.

He saw it anyways and moved closer, gingerly placing his hands on her waist and helping her to the ground.

Her shirt choice now backfired on her—because the tight, thin material meant that she felt the heat of his hands, as if there wasn’t anything between them and her skin at all. She tried not to give any outward reaction, tried not to lean further into the touch (that bit was easy, as leaning really didn’t feel that great at the moment).

Once she was firmly on her feet, he released his grip, but he still hovered all the way back to his vehicle, bringing his hands to her waist again to help her into the cab. One hand slid to the small of her back, holding her steady and guiding her further in, until she was actually half-seated.

As soon as his touch left, she missed it. With a frustrated sigh, she pulled off her helmet, clunking it in the floorboard next to his.

Eist got in the vehicle again, glancing over at her. With his sunglasses on, she couldn’t tell if he was concerned or still pissed. Maybe both.

“Shit,” he said suddenly. He removed his sunglasses and leaned in. “Take off your glasses.”

She did. And instantly she knew—she still felt an odd pressure on the right side of her nose, where the plastic nosepad had rested.

“You’re bleeding,” he said softly.

And despite knowing full well it was true, she still lifted her hand up to the spot, pulling away her fingertips to see blood. She’d banged about a bit during the roll—her glasses must have smashed into her face at some point, breaking the skin with the edge of the nosepad.

She turned and popped open the glove compartment. “We always keep first aid kits on hand. Just in case.”

He hummed, obviously approving. She pulled the kit out, but his hand stopped her before she could open it. “Let me, please.”

The _please_ was what got her. It was…respectful, without an ounce of pity. As if he understood that she was perfectly capable of handling it herself, but wanted to help anyways. As if she was the one doing him a favor, by letting him.

She gently released her hold on the first aid kit. He quickly opened it and found the antiseptic wipes.

“It’s gonna sting,” he warned.

“I’ve had cuts before,” she drawled. “I am familiar with the treatment.”

He huffed slightly at that. She leaned in and kept her gaze on the ceiling. He gently dabbed her face with a cotton pad first, cleaning up the blood while holding her chin lightly with his other hand. Then he switched to the antiseptic wipe. She could feel the regret in his fingertips, in how lightly he grazed over the cut.

She clenched her jaw and tried not to blink as her eyes smarted from the pain.

“Almost done,” he promised in a low, half-distracted murmur. Then it was over and he dipped his head to look for something else in the kit, his other hand still holding her chin, just by the fingertips.

She let her gaze slide down to his face.

He was more than just attractive or conventionally good-looking, she realized a bit numbly. He truly was a beautiful man. Somehow both soft and rugged.

With a bolt of terror, she realized her attraction to him wasn’t just physical, either.

Did she still want to do unspeakable things to him, right here in this far-too-cramped car in the middle of nowhere? Absolutely. But she also just wanted to kiss him. Just…because. Because he was sweet and he was soft and he was beautiful.

He looked up again with those breathtakingly blue eyes and her heart stuttered to a stop before slamming into overdrive. She forced herself to look at the ceiling as he shifted forward again, lightly dabbing a bit of cream on the cut.

“Alright,” he said quietly, his voice somehow seeming to shatter the air. “Let’s get a plaster on there and we’ll be set.”

She hummed in agreement, though it nearly devolved into a whine when his fingertips left her chin.

This time, she didn’t let herself look at him again. Simply waited until he found a small enough plaster, unwrapped it, and placed it over the cut, smoothing the sides around the bridge of her nose and the curve under her eye. His thumbs, brushing against her skin so gently, was enough to make her eyes close involuntarily.

Eist was staring. He couldn’t help it. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been able to think, much less do anything, when he’d glanced up to find those big brown eyes watching him with a kind of soft warmth that made his lungs forget to breathe for a full beat. Yes, he’d figured out that her eyes were her tell, but he’d never seen them melt quite like that before. There was…yearning, almost, and a sadness that seemed out of place.

Now they were shuttered behind closed lids, the rest of her facial expression almost-dreamy. Again, it was so indescribably soft and trusting that he took a full beat just to process it.

It was the trust in her small, simple action, that truly did him in. He’d been trying to gain her trust, almost since they moment they’d met—and now, at even just the slightest hint of receiving some measure of it, he felt an instant need for more. She was so unbelievably open in her vulnerability, it was like looking at a different person entirely.

He really wasn’t sure he’d ever figure her out, he realized. Wasn’t sure he wanted to, in a way—her mystery was her charm, and he rather liked being charmed by her.

Then her eyes snapped back open and she took a beat to simply look at him, the melting softness completely gone, though a calm sense of openness remained.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and she meant it, he could tell.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t quite find the words.

She sat back, offering a slight arch of her brow that almost covered the slight wince her movement created. “For the record, you technically forfeited the race. Which means I win, by default.”

The surprised laughter bubbled up from his lungs, flooding his veins was a light, airy feeling. The nerves and the tension—even the delicious kind of tension from those last few moments—faded and fizzled away. He could hear her humming in low amusement as well.

No, he never quite wanted to figure her out, he mused wryly, stowing away the rest of the first aid kit. Calanthe of Cintra was a law unto herself—she deserved to be as known or as unknown as she wished.

But he’d still do whatever he could to earn more of her trust, though. He felt as if he’d just witnessed some sort of miracle, in this quiet moment in the desert. And like any good zealot, he’d gladly try anything and everything to witness another.

Calanthe reached back to grab the seatbelt, already feeling the pull again in her shoulder. By the time it was halfway across her body, Eist was reaching over, gently holding out his hand to help. She let him take the buckle from her hand, watching the nuances of his face as he leaned over, gingerly buckling her in.

Again, he looked so soft, it made her heart clench. She suddenly wanted to cry.

It was too late, she realized. All her promises of leaning in, playing just enough to feel the heat, keeping a safe distance and enjoying just a little respite from her real life, no consequences involved.

It was all far too late. She was already burned.


	16. The Nature of the Game

**The Training Dunes, Cintra.**

Alcise let out a long, audible breath through her rather impressive nose as she vigorously rubbed the heat wrap between her hands before peeling off the adhesive strip cover and gingerly applying it to the curve of Calanthe’s left shoulder.

Calanthe, who was seated on the edge of the camp bed, shifted and reached up, trying to help. Alcise lightly swatted her hand away. Calanthe didn’t try again.

The medic had cleared her, diagnosing some seriously strained muscles from the impact of the roll, which was unsurprising. Currently, Calanthe was treating as much of the sore spots as she could with therma-wraps, her muscles already rippling with relief at the immediate heat.

Alcise helped her back into her shirt again—this time, its tight fit helped press the wraps further into her skin, and she was grateful. Though it was already hot enough outside, which meant she’d be sweating soon.

“I’m gonna be like a walking sauna,” Calanthe proclaimed.

Alcise hummed at that. “It’d probably do you good. Get some of last night’s toxins out.”

“I didn’t drink that much.”

“Poison is still poison.”

“ _You_ drank said poison.”

“I did,” Alcise admitted with a slight nod. “Though I believe I had far less than you, my dear.”

“Poison is still poison,” Calanthe quoted back.

Now Alcise chuckled. She stepped back, giving her younger cousin a concerned once-over. “D’you want some ice water?”

“Alcise, you’re on vacation, too. I can handle myself.”

Alcise shrugged, turning and murmuring something along the lines of _handle yourself into an early grave_.

“I heard that,” Calanthe raised her voice at the woman’s retreating form.

“I meant for you to,” Alcise returned without a backwards glance, breezing through the tent’s opening.

With a roll of her eyes, Calanthe sat back a little more. Immediately regretted making any movement whatsoever.

With a low groan, she slowly and gingerly lowered herself onto the mattress, lying face up and cradling her left arm over her stomach.

Not for the first time, she replayed the sight of Eist’s face, when he was busy looking through the first aid kit. More than anything, she regretted not leaning in, not kissing the tip of his nose.

A kiss. She was pining over a kiss. A few days ago, she was imagining a quick fuck in the garden—now she was wishing for the world’s chastest kiss. Somehow, that made him far more dangerous than most of her other attractions, over the years. Because those had always been primal and physical, fast and furious. This…was slow, and soft, and filled with far more than just lust.

She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Still, she found herself closing her eyes and thinking about the things she did like. The solidness of him beside her, on the helicopter ride. The feeling of his hands around her waist, both soft and steady, as she got out of the vehicle. The butterfly-light brush of his thumb against her cheek, when he applied the plaster to her cut.

She realized that, aside from Pavetta and her ladies, it had been a long time since someone had actually touched her. Perhaps that explained her current untethered feeling—she was just touch-starved, and Eist Tuirseach happened to be someone who touched her.

That was perfectly natural, she decided. And a problem she could fix, soon enough, with someone else—just as soon as the scrutiny and insanity of the investiture and wedding were over.

That was some of it, too, she thought. Another reason for her inexplicable infatuation with this man. The stress of the upcoming week, the stress of life in general, the stress of those damnable reports Renfri had been giving her, every morning for the past three months—it was all a bit overwhelming, and naturally, she looked for a distraction. And Eist Tuirseach certainly was distracting.

He also was responsible for some of her stress, seeing as his presence meant that she couldn’t be nearly as unguarded in her own home as usual. So maybe she was simply trying to…make him pay for it, in some way.

Yes, that was it, she decided. Life was a bit much, right now. He was both a convenient scapegoat and object of fixation, nothing more. Once this was over, she could find herself an agreeable, far-less-entangled lover, enjoy a bit of a romp and release this pent-up tension, and move on with her life.

She heard the low cadence of his voice, somewhere nearby (tents not being the most sound-proof of structures, naturally). Her entire body pulled with an odd reaction.

No, she didn’t like this at all. But it was manageable, she told herself. She could still have a little fun, this weekend. She just…had to be more careful, that was all.

She could do that. She could do anything she put her mind to.

* * *

Each tent had a ten-foot canopy over the entrance, allowing for a bit of outdoor shade. Eist and Mousesack were currently installed in camp chairs under their tent's canopy, quietly discussing the events of the afternoon.

Eist hadn’t eaten lunch yet—he’d been far too eager to follow Calanthe wherever she led, as soon as they arrived—and now his stomach was beginning to protest, but he found himself unable to wander off to the kitchens just yet. Instead, he kept letting his gaze filter over to the queen’s tent.

Mousesack noted the continued gazing, and wisely didn’t comment. Though he felt a flutter of concern. He wasn’t a blind man—in fact, one could say he was far more observant than most—and the things he’d begun to notice over the past few days were beginning to worry him.

Sure, the queen was good-looking, and power could be an aphrodisiac for some—but she was entirely off-limits, and it seemed that his friend wasn’t entirely aware of that fact. Nor was the queen, for that matter.

Still, he told himself that Eist was just softening her up, to get a better angle on the second, secret story. He hoped that was it, anyways.

Eist sat up a bit, and Mousesack turned to see—Alcise had emerged from the queen’s tent. Seeing them, she ducked her head and moved towards them.

“She’ll live,” she decreed, once she was closer. She came to stand under the canopy, hands resting on her hips. “Just some pulled muscles.”

Noting Eist’s expression, she added, “Don’t feel badly. She injures herself, every time we come here. One would think she’s accident-prone or clumsy, but honestly, she’s just too damn competitive and goes too hard, with zero concept of her own limits.”

Alcise remained absolutely deadpan, merely arching a brow. Eist grinned—yes, that sounded like Calanthe, to the letter.

The sound of footsteps quickly crunching across the sand grabbed everyone’s attention. They shifted to see Visindra, returning from the complex with a worried expression.

“Brace for impact,” Alcise warned in a low tone. Somehow, it sounded…affectionate, Eist thought.

“They said she was in a wreck?” Visindra didn’t bother with preambles.

“She’s fine,” Alcise assured her. “She’s perfectly fine.”

“The medic was just back at the dining room, he said—”

By now, Visindra was much closer—Alcise merely stepped forward to meet her, hand lightly circling Visindra’s wrist, as if tethering her back to earth.

“She’s alright,” Alcise promised quietly. “She’s just resting.”

A beat passed between the two women. Then Visindra nodded.

Eist noted the way Alcise’s thumb gently rubbed the pulse point on Visindra’s wrist. The way Visindra’s fingertips fluttered and curled in response.

He suddenly understood why their disagreement over the security detail had been so heated. Why Visindra brought Alcise pie after dinner. Why they chose to share a tent for the weekend.

“Is she still going to be able to play tonight?” Visindra asked, shifting gears. Alcise released her grip with a slight roll of her eyes.

“The medic has cleared her for it,” she returned. Eist got the feeling that the poor medic—a kid who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five, at the most—would have cleared the queen for anything she wished. He knew how impervious her glares could be, just how easily she could pull rank to get her way. Bending him to her will would have been as easy as blinking.

Still, there was an important question to ask, “What’s going on tonight?”

Visindra turned to him with a grin, “Pavetta really did keep you in the dark, didn’t she?”

* * *

Visindra hadn’t been kidding entirely, when she’d quipped that they spent the weekend trying to kill each other—at least on a metaphorical level.

Once evening began to fall, everyone gathered and headed down to the village. Visindra had explained to Eist and Mousesack earlier—every visit, there was an all-out paintball war that was also a bit of a high-stakes version of capture the flag.

It was Pavetta’s favorite event, surprisingly. Eist was beginning to realize that she was quite her mother’s child.

Speaking of her mother—Calanthe had sauntered out of her tent in the late afternoon, looking far less pained, thanks to therma-wraps and aspirin. She had no intention in missing out on the fun, even if she regretted it later. Eist was both amused and aggravated by the woman’s obvious lack of concern for her own wellbeing.

But she was so eager to play that her delight outweighed any irritation he truly felt. And he could tell from everyone else’s reactions that this was the highlight of the weekend for them, too.

It was actually endearing, he thought. This little oddly-violent collection of people, a cobbled-together family of sorts. Even Renfri and Danek were playing—and given their expressions, they were absolutely gleeful at the thought.

Even Mousesack deigned to join in, this time. Though he had a rather firm view against guns, for the most part.

With twelve people, they split into teams of two again.

“Renfri, with me,” Calanthe commanded, and that earned a few noises of protest.

“There has to be a balance of skill sets,” Pavetta pointed out.

Calanthe looked at her, “Do you honestly think Renfri’s going to ever shoot against me, even in a game?”

Renfri made a face and shrugged, as if acquiescing to the point.

“Danek, on the other hand,” Calanthe cut a sly look at her other personal guard.

The young man grinned, “Oh, I won’t hesitate.”

They both chuckled at that.

“Well, I’m with Duny anyways,” Pavetta decreed.

“Oy,” Visindra piped up. “That’s against the rules. No spouses.”

“We’re not spouses—”

“Oh, you practically are.”

Calanthe raised her hand to silence the two. “You know they won’t shoot at each other anyways.”

“I never get to pair up with my wife,” Visindra still pointed out, nodding towards Alcise.

Oh, Eist thought. So his suspicions were confirmed.

“That’s because we _would_ shoot each other,” Alcise returned dryly. Visindra slowly raised the barrel of her paintball rifle. Alcise flicked her gaze heavenward. “Point proven, already.”

“Fine,” Visindra huffed in feigned irritation. She turned a charming smile towards Danek. “My dear sir, would you do me the honor of helping slaughter the rest of these bastards?”

“Gladly." He grinned as well. They tapped the sides of their barrels together, as if high-fiving.

“Journalists stick together,” Eist nodded towards Mousesack, who nodded in agreement.

Fringilla elbowed Triss lightly. “Let’s do this, Merigold.”

Triss hiked her rifle onto her shoulder and gave a curt nod of approval. “Absolutely.”

Alcise and Hille were the only two left, and quite happy to team up.

“Alright,” Visindra declared, zipping up her padded jumpsuit. “Gear up and get the hell out.”

Everyone quickly donned helmets and gloves and made last-minute adjustments to their jumpsuits and rifle straps.

Eist lightly tapped Mousesack’s shoulder, motioning for him to follow. They disappeared into the village, skirting around the edge of the houses. Visindra had explained beforehand—there was a flag hidden somewhere in the village, planted by Ezondre Talke, so no one actually playing knew its location. The objective was to capture the flag—and also be the last one standing. Having possession of the flag didn’t necessarily guarantee a win, as someone could take you out and take the flag in turn.

It was still early evening—nightfall was hours away, and the village was equipped with lighting so that they wouldn’t be plunged into absolute darkness once it did arrive. Plus everyone had two flashlights: one attached to the paintball gun, and one handheld, attached to the utility belts that came with the jumpsuits.

By the end of the first hour, Hille and Triss were out of the game. Eist was surprised that there weren’t more skirmishes at first, but it was evident that everyone was more focused on finding the flag.

Visindra and Danek found it—and immediately alerted everyone else with whoops of delighted victory. Suddenly, the objective shifted.

Eist and Mousesack were sneaking through a small alleyway when they spotted Visindra and Danek squaring off against Duny, Pavetta, and Fringilla, who’d all joined forces.

Before now, Eist had never really seen Visindra and Danek interact—but given their banter and their synchronization, it was evident that they actually did spend a lot of time together, in their day jobs. Honestly, Eist hadn’t seen Danek smile before today, but the young man was beaming as he traded quips with the queen’s lady.

Again, Eist marveled at how it felt like a big extended family, the group of people brought together by crown and circumstance.

Duny and Fringilla got hit, but Pavetta literally rolled into a side street and jumped back to her feet in a sprint.

Eist took aim, but was surprised by a sudden explosion of color on the back of Danek’s shoulder. He glanced up, looking for the source—Alcise, who’d somehow climbed atop one of the houses.

Visindra whirled around, giving a soft _fuck_ , before a paintball hit her square in the chest.

She, of course, died quite dramatically, wailing about the betrayal of love. Her wife merely smirked and went to make her way back down and reclaim the flag.

“Now’s our chance,” Mousesack prompted, far more invested in the game that Eist had originally suspected. They hurried forward.

Visindra saw them coming and grinned, holding up the flag for them to grab.

“Thank the gods,” she murmured. “That woman’s far too smug when she wins.”

They hurried across the open square, to the side street that Pavetta had disappeared down. Behind them, Eist could hear Alcise’s cries of dismay when her wife informed her that the flag was already gone.

Eist heard footsteps behind them, fast and furious—he glanced back to see Alcise in a full sprint. She was a runner, he realized. And she was fiercely competitive.

Must be a family trait, he mused. By now, he was fully aware of the de Ruyter sisters’ biological connection to Calanthe, as cousins. There were certainly similarities.

“Run!” Mousesack prompted, even though they were both doing just that. “I’ll cover!”

Eist skittered down a side street, pumping his legs double-time. He heard some more noise and knew Mousesack had turned around and tried to distract Alcise, most likely sacrificing himself in the process. Eist ducked into one of the buildings, trying to regain his breath and find another exit.

The little makeshift house had large, open windows. He slipped across the dirt floor quietly, climbing out the other side. He repeated this move for several streets, putting a wider distance between him and Alcise. He took a moment to fully cram the small plastic flag into the pocket of his jumpsuit, making sure it wasn’t noticeable or visible at all. He had a plan—pretend as if he didn’t have the flag at all, until the very end.

He slowed down to a walk, focusing on keeping his footsteps light and his ears open to any alerting sounds.

He paused, sensing something, and slid back into the shadows. He heard the steady, assured crunch of footsteps—someone who had zero qualms about letting others know they were around.

He almost chuckled when Calanthe came into view, trailed by Renfri. Everyone’s names were taped onto their helmets, to help keep track—but he wouldn’t have needed that anyways. He would recognize the swaggering sway of those hips anywhere, even underneath a thick jumpsuit.

Calanthe suddenly halted, slowly bringing her hand up in a signal. Renfri stopped as well, slowly shifting so that they were both in a more defensive position.

They were definitely both former military, Eist realized. But then again, so was he.

Quietly, slowly, he lined up the shot.

The instant Renfri was hit, Calanthe ducked and rolled. Not that Eist had any intention of shooting her, just yet.

“Aw, fuck!” Renfri cried out, whipping off her helmet.

“I will avenge you,” Calanthe promised, tone dripping with theatrical somberness. She was still well-hidden behind a low half-wall.

Renfri laughed softly at that. “Avenge me well, my queen.”

That was something Eist had noticed, over the course of the day—despite the fact that formalities were supposed to be abandoned for the weekend, Renfri Fredesdotter still referred to Calanthe by her title the entire time. And while Calanthe had corrected others, she didn’t do so with Renfri.

Again, there was something…almost kind, in the odd action. No desire to pressure the young woman or make her feel odd for being unable to make the switch.

With one last frustrated shake of her head and a look around, Renfri trotted off, back towards the outskirts of the village where the other fallen players were now hanging out. Eist was a bit surprised that she didn’t try to find the source of the shot—but he supposed that was the rules, after all. Once out of the game, players couldn’t contribute to its outcome in any way.

Eist took a half-step back and waited. If Calanthe was still there, she was being equally patient.

Several minutes passed. He decided to go back the way he came. He rounded the corner of another house cautiously—and still somehow tripped.

Thankfully his gloves saved his hands from the impact as his gun skittered to the side. Before he could fully register it, someone was already keeping a light hand on his shoulder blade, knees caging around his torso.

“If this were a real war, you’d be dead, little prince.” The smug voice in his ear made him grin involuntarily.

“If I’d wanted to shoot you along with Renfri, I would have already,” he countered.

Calanthe hummed at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Then, she queried, “Truce?”

“Truce,” he agreed.

She moved away, giving him space to get up. She handed the rifle back to him.

“Where’s you helmet?” He asked.

She tilted her chin back to the open doorway of the house he’d come around—obviously she’d somehow doubled around and waited for him to walk by, sticking her foot out of the doorway to trip him.

“How long does this truce last?” He pulled up his helmet to reveal his face, grateful for the cooler air.

“Until we find out who’s got the flag." She shrugged, with a slight grin. Her face was dirty and she still had a bandage over the cut on her nose. She was the most dashing thing he’d ever seen. Somehow, this version created far more of a physical reaction in him than the perfectly-coiffed and sexily-clad versions he’d seen over the past week (though those versions were still quite lovely, he could admit).

“Last I saw, Alcise had it,” he lied through his teeth. This had been his strategy all along, but now he certainly was digging his heels in. A chance to play by her side? He’d be an absolute fool to waste it.

Calanthe hummed again, making a slight face as her mind whirred. “She always favors high ground. And the western side of the village. Let’s see if we can find her.”

She grabbed her helmet, slipping it atop her head like a hat instead of fully pulling it over her face again.

“Who else is still in the game?” He asked.

“Us. Alcise, I’m pretty sure. And Pavetta, I think.”

“Must be a proud parenting moment for you,” he commented.

She huffed in amusement at that. Gesturing for him to follow, they fell into step, continuing towards the western side and keeping their voices low. “I had the chance to shoot her, but I couldn’t.”

“Sounds a bit like coddling,” he pointed out.

She grinned at that. “Self-preservation, more like. She gets _unbearable_ if I’m the one to take her out. Quite the sore loser, that one.”

“Wonder where she gets that from." He feigned mild confusion.

She lightly smacked his arm. “I have no qualms about shooting you now, Tuirseach.”

“Eist.” He corrected.

“Eist,” she returned, a bit softly.

Calanthe could honestly kick herself, right now. What was the one thing she’d promised not to do? And what was the one thing she consistently found herself doing?

She could have simply shot him, when she’d peeked around the corner and seen him waiting, focused in the other direction, where she’d ducked behind the half-wall. Ended it then and there.

But she’d hesitated. Found herself wanting a reason to just…be, here, with him. She knew he’d accept a truce, because he was competitive and it gave him a chance to still win.

And if it happened to give them a few extra minutes to play together…well, so what?

“How’s the shoulder?” He asked quietly.

“Better.” She gave a small nod. “That and my lower back are gonna hurt like hell tomorrow, but for now, the pills and the heat wraps are definitely doing their jobs.”

“Perhaps you should take it easy, tomorrow,” he suggested. “Have a masseuse come up to the complex, or something like that.”

 _Something like that_. Damn her body for immediately remembering the feel of his hands on her—and damn her mind all the more for imagining them elsewhere, slowly kneading her aching muscles into a happier state.

She pretended to consider the idea. “Perhaps.”

He chuckled softly, and she knew that he was well-aware that his suggestion had already been dismissed.

Still, she feigned mild irritation, “Do I amuse you, sir?”

“To no end,” he returned warmly, looking down at her. That look made her chest tighten.

Gods above, he was tall. Taller than she’d realized at first, given the fact that she was usually in heels.

The perfect height, really—if he were to push her up against a wall right now, her mouth would be exactly where his neck met his shoulder, which was always a lovely place to nip and suck—and it almost always earned some delicious sounds from her lovers.

He’d be a moaner, she decided. Her body immediately reacted to the thought.

Eist watched a blush spread across Calanthe’s face, visible even in the fading light. He was instantly intrigued. What was going through that head of hers?

Then her expression changed and she grabbed his upper arm, pulling him with her against a wall. Her big brown eyes shifted skyward as she silently pointed above them.

Eist fell silent. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her face, though.

Those eyes, he thought. They could drown the whole world in their depths.

He could hear the noise above them. Steady, light paces. Then a pause, a small huff, and the harder smack of a full body impact. Had Alcise just jumped between two rooftops?

The corner of Calanthe’s mouth flickered in an almost-smile. Eist found himself entranced by the small action.

Then he realized that her hand was still at his arm, fingers curling into his bicep. Not too tight, but deep enough to be truly felt. It was…nice, he realized.

And it was already gone. She released her grip, putting a finger to her lips. Then with a slight crook of her finger, she slid further down the wall, her gaze lifting up to the rooftop again. Eist knew they were moving away from Alcise, who would definitely have the advantage.

Calanthe was rather grateful for Eist’s military training, at this point. It was obvious that he’d retained a certain skill level, for his current job—he moved quietly behind her, light on his feet for a man of his size. She hesitated for a moment, looking up at make sure she had the right house again—yep, two stories—before slipping inside.

She faltered, for just a second. It was practically pitch-black inside. She heard Eist shifting behind her, shouldering his weapon. Then his hand was on her shoulder, followed by the click of a flashlight switch. A thin beam of light pierced the darkness.

 _Lead the way._ She could sense his thought. She moved forward, keeping her pace matched to his as she navigated to the next room, where a ladder led up to the second story.

His hand left her shoulder once they reached the ladder and he moved, angling so that he could shine up into the darkness above. She put her hand over it, lowering the beam.

“Don’t give her a heads up,” she whispered. He adjusted so that the ladder was still lit enough to see. Then she made her way up as quickly as possible, turning to take the flashlight from him, shining it back down so that he could see the rungs to climb up himself.

Honestly, Eist was having the time of his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he played, like this. He felt like a kid again, treating a simple game of hide and seek as an excuse to play spy or solider or whatever his young mind had imagined in the moment.

It also didn’t hurt that Calanthe was grinning breathlessly at him, face shining with her own sense of delight. In the darkness, her eyes shone like stars, dangerous and dancing.

“Bring back memories of the good old days?” She asked, in a raspy whisper. Her skin was beginning to sheen and at his current angle, the flashlight beam only highlighted the pulse thrumming just below her jawline.

She looked divine. And delicious.

He focused on the question as he fully reached the second floor. “The good old days?”

“You fought in the war, didn’t you?” She seemed to already know the answer—but then again, of course she did. They were the same age, and most likely both would have been involved in the Southern War, twenty-four years ago. Both Skellig and Cintra had been part of the Northern Alliance, pushing back against Nilfgaard and Korath (who’d eventually been taken over by the Nilfgaardian empire a decade later).

Eist frowned slightly. “I did. But I don’t think I’d consider them the good old days.”

Her expression softened, just a bit. She almost looked…hurt, by his response. Then she smiled a false smile and said, “Maybe you weren’t doing it right, then.”

She clicked off the flashlight, drowning them both in darkness momentarily. Then Eist’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting from outside. She rose to her feet and silently slipped out the door, onto a rooftop patio.

He followed, keeping low and keeping an eye out for Alcise.

Then, they heard Pavetta’s voice ring out, “Oh! You bitch!”

“Welp, looks like it’s down to three of us, now,” Calanthe commented dryly.

Eist was still mulling over her response from before, about the war. Her response to his words, specifically. Why did she care what he thought? And why did he care about her response to his thoughts?

Calanthe shifted back inside. He waited, listening to her huff and drag something.

She reappeared, carrying the ladder with her.

“What on earth are you doing?” He asked quietly, more than a little intrigued.

She merely smirked. Then gingerly lowered the ladder, extending it across the gap between this house and the next. She’d created a bridge.

“That’s unstable as hell,” he pronounced.

“You don’t have to cross, if you don’t want to.” Her voice was silky-smooth and honey-sweet. She readjusted her paintball gun, making sure it was firmly strapped to her back, and then pulled her helmet into proper place. Then, without a second’s hesitation, she set out, bear-crawling across the ladder.

Eist was torn between enjoying a lovely view and worrying she’d topple over.

She made it safely across, hopping to her feet and dusting her hands on her hips with an air of absolute satisfaction. She pulled off her helmet again, this time tossing it to the floor.

Then, she grabbed the ladder and pulled it away from his rooftop.

Eist felt a wash of confusion. “What the—”

“Oh, my dear, sweet prince.” Her voice was a coy rasp and her smile was wickedness itself. “We were always going to betray each other, weren’t we? That’s the nature of the game.”

He should shoot her, he realized. Or at the least, she should have already shot him. But neither did. They simply took a beat to stare at each other, across the rooftops.

Eist Tuirseach had experienced plenty of enjoyable, sexually-charged exchanges with women. Nothing compared to the sheer eroticism of this moment, of her dark eyes and her absolutely feral grin as she stared him down and dared him to make a move.

Over her shoulder, he noticed movement.

“Duck,” he said quietly, raising his paintball rifle.

She obeyed. He hit Alcise square in the chest, six rooftops away. He heard her muffled swearing, even through her helmet—and Calanthe’s low chuckle of triumph in response.

Calanthe was already on the move, slipping through a trap door in the roof, obviously heading towards Alcise.

Eist felt a smug rush of victory. He waited until he was certain that she was truly moving forward, focused on obtaining the flag from Alcise. Then he went back inside, gingerly lowering his body through the opening and dropping the rest of the way to the first floor.

He removed his helmet as well—something told him that Calanthe’s aim was good enough that he wasn’t in danger—and slipped out into the darkening streets, making his way closer.

He heard voices—Calanthe, obviously questioning Alcise, only to find that she didn't have the flag.

He tried not to chuckle at the frustrated growl that followed her discovery.

She'd just realized that he’d played her, too, in some way.

 _Oh, my dear, sweet queen,_ he thought smugly. _That’s the nature of the game_.

He could hear her, coming for him. She was stomping her way through the main street, making no attempts at stealth.

The plan formed in his head, before he could truly weigh the consequences.

It was too easy, sliding closer to the edge of a house. Timing the moment to put his own foot out, to catch hers. He was a bit kinder though—he reached out and caught her by the waist, before she fully hit the ground, spinning her around and setting her back on her feet before she could even register what was happening. He neutralized her hands, putting his own over them and keeping them from angling her weapon towards him.

Her eyes were wide but her brows were set in a dangerous furrow.

“You lied,” she announced, obviously displeased.

He wanted to laugh, “So did you.”

“No, I _tricked_ you. But I didn’t lie.”

She was genuinely pissed, he realized with a flutter of surprise. It was such a small distinction that most people would not make, and yet, it apparently was quite important to her. Numbly, he wondered if that was her approach, the odd sense of hiding behind a mask he’d noticed over the past few days—she didn’t outright lie, but she told the truth in a way that…tricked people into thinking it meant something else.

“I don’t like lying,” she informed him. There was something deadly in the calmness of her tone, the stillness of her body.

“Understood,” he said simply.

He was rather certain that they weren’t discussing a game of capture the flag.

She watched him for a beat, then nodded. Then her expression shifted as she pushed against his grip, just enough to be felt.

He watched her curiously, feeling the odd shift in the air between them. Anything could happen, and he wouldn’t be surprised, he thought—because in this moment, if felt like _anything_ could happen, anything at all.

Calanthe’s entire body was pounding with adrenaline—Eist had scared her, with the whole trip-and-spin number, but she’d already been in a state before that, truth be told. She knew that she must look like a petulant little brat right now, huffing about lying over something as silly as a game of capture the flag—but her throat was too tight, and she wouldn’t explain even if she could.

She was angrier at herself. She’d looked up into those beautiful blue eyes and she’d trusted him, when he lied. That was her fault—she knew better. Better than most, at just how easily someone could look you in the eye and lie, without hesitation, without any sign of falsehood at all.

It was a small lie, an inconsequential thing. But that's how it always started. 

_And you thought you wanted this,_ her inner voice taunted. _Why? Because he was different in some way? Wake up, kid._

She’d convinced herself that she could read him. That he was trustworthy, even if it felt a little dangerous. Now, she realized the sense of danger had been her intuition—always a wonky thing, truth be told—trying to warn her. She just hadn’t listened.

She never listened. Never learned, either, apparently.

 _It’s fine_ , she retorted, to the voice in her head. _I know the score, now. And that’s just fine_.

And it was. She never wanted anything beyond this—a quick and painless flirtation, a few minutes of stolen smiles and light touches—and she could still have that, if she wanted.

Eist was watching her in absolute fascination. She used it to her advantage, leaning in just a little more. Those blue eyes widened and she felt a flicker of victory. Yes _this_ , this was all she wanted.

She pushed hard, without warning, pulling her hands down and away, breaking his grip. She whipped her rifle into place, keeping it trained on him.

“Give up the flag and call a forfeit.”

He blinked in surprise. “You’re not just gonna shoot me?”

She swallowed at that, feeling a wave of unease (why _hadn’t_ she just shot him?). However, she offered, “You played a good game, I’ll let you go with dignity.”

“Dignity?” He huffed at that. Then he cocked his head to the side and grinned, “I’m afraid you’ve misjudged me, madame.”

She knew instantly that she was in trouble. He kicked up a plume of dirt, and she reacted out of instinct, shielding her eyes with her arm.

She felt a solid thwack to her stomach, the sting of a paintball searing through her skin.

“That was extremely close range, you arse!” She cried. But when she looked over, she realized that he’d actually put further distance between them, trying to lessen the blow. Still, she found herself grinning. She was a bit…impressed, at his efforts.

He looked chagrined at the idea of causing her further pain. She waved away the apology before it left his mouth, “No, don’t. It’s the nature of the game.”

Then she casually shot him in the foot.

“Hey!”

“Oh, look, now we’re even.”

“You’re dead!”

“Yes, but you looked so guilt-stricken, I felt honor-bound to help you out.”

He laughed at that, unable to deny it.

She looked around, frowning slightly. “I have to go back and grab my helmet.”

“Me, too.” He glanced back, towards the houses they’d both abandoned their helmets in. Wordlessly, they shouldered their weapons and headed in that direction.

“Nice move, with Alcise,” she commented lightly.

“Thank you,” he seemed genuinely pleased at the compliment. After a beat, he added in a more serious tone, “I do understand, about the lying.”

“Oh.” She said simply. She wasn’t sure what else to say. But he didn’t seem to expect anything else—in fact, the silence that fell between them was completely companionable and at-ease.

They gathered their helmets and made their way back through the village, where the others were waiting.

Well, some of them were waiting— _one_ of them, to be exact.

“Everyone else went on ahead, to get cleaned up for dinner,” Pavetta explained with a smile. She’d been filled with unending delight when she’d returned to the group, only to find out that her mother and Eist were soon the only two left.

They both seemed…a little different, she thought. A little more comfortable around each other, even more so than this morning.

Had something… _happened_ , in the village? Pavetta felt a gleeful flutter at the thought. Oh, she hoped so. Her mother deserved a good time.

“Have fun?” She asked them both, in an entirely innocent and light-hearted tone.

“Right up until I was murdered,” her mother deadpanned. She set her helmet and rifle in the back of the flatbed jeep. Eist followed suit.

But when Calanthe tried to climb in, his hands on her waist stopped her. “Whoa, wait a second. You’re riding up front.”

Pavetta noticed how easily his hands had found her mother’s body. Not the first time that had happened, she realized.

“I’ll ride where I want,” Calanthe retorted, turning back to him with a slow, incredulous stare. “And you’ll refrain from mothering me, Eist Tuirseach.”

She unzipped her jumpsuit and peeled the top half off, tying the arms around her waist. The t-shirt underneath was clinging to her sweaty skin—she saw the brief flicker of Eist's gaze, taking in that detail as well, and her chest flushed with warmth. 

He was mimicking her movements, unzipping his jumpsuit as well. His current t-shirt revealed more tattoos, going up his bicep. Calanthe tried not to stare, though it took her a moment to realize her mouth was still hanging open.

Thankfully, he didn't seem to notice, as he was too busy still trying to worry over her. He arched his brow, “Don’t you _want_ to ride up front?”

Pavetta watched the exchange in rapt fascination. She didn't miss any of the little looks. As odd as it felt, seeing her mother in this light, it was also...kind of cute.

Her mother huffed at Eist's question, shaking her head slightly. And then, miracle of all miracles, she acquiesced, moving around the side of the jeep.

Pavetta bit her bottom lip in an attempt to contain her grin. She ducked her head and went back to the driver’s seat, waiting for her mother to buckle up and for Eist to fully find a seat in the back of the flatbed before turning the engine and heading back to base camp.

* * *

Their only stop before dinner was to wash their hands. Everyone else was already assembled, raising their beers in toast and cheering loudly when they arrived.

Everyone was equally shocked when they realized that Eist had won the day, not Calanthe.

“It was my injuries from earlier that held me back,” she assured them all, lightly touching her shoulder for dramatic effect.

Eist laughed and rolled his eyes. He didn’t dare refute it.

“Speaking of,” he realized, once she took a seat next to him. He kept his voice low, so that only she could hear, “I believe I have to give a maudlin toast, extolling your virtues…”

For some reason she blushed, waving it away. “No, no. You didn’t properly forfeit—and you only ended things because I was being pig-headed.”

“Still—”

“No." She shook her head again, fighting back a smile. She wouldn’t look at him, and that was a fascinating tell in itself. “How about this, though? Tomorrow, I take you out to the dunes, and we race properly again. Then we’ll see who truly wins.”

“Deal,” he held up his beer. She grinned as she clinked hers against it.

From across the table, Pavetta quietly watched the interaction. She dipped her head and tried not to grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to add a super huge THANK YOU to everyone who has left kudos/reviews/tumblr reblogs and commentary. You guys rock, and I love ya from the bottom of my ink-stained heart <3


	17. A Hawk in the Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger caution: mild/brief mention of reproductive coercion (birth control sabotage, specifically)

**The Training Dunes, Cintra.**

Alcise waited until they were alone in their tent before announcing to Visindra, “You need to speak to your goddaughter.”

“About?” Visindra stopped braiding her hair long enough to look over at her wife, who was pulling back the covers on their large camp bed.

“About encouraging this…thing between her mother and Mr. Tuirseach.”

“Eist,” Visindra corrected, adhering to the weekend trip rules.

Alcise flicked her gaze heavenward. With a sigh, she looked back at her.

Visindra finished her braid, turning to fully face Alcise. “Do you honestly think that Cal can’t handle herself?”

“Normally?” Alcise clarified. “I know she can. But…this?”

She gave a helpless flop of her hands.

“It feels like history repeating,” she admitted quietly.

Visindra grinned at that. She moved closer, crawling across the bed to raise up on her knees, returning to eye-level with her wife. “Why is it that you’re more afraid of a broken heart than a bullet?”

Alcise’s brows quirked in further concern. “Do you really think it’s a thing of the heart?”

Visindra shrugged at that. “Hard to tell, with Cal. I think it’s definitely a physical thing, but it could be more.”

“I think it is,” Alcise confessed. “Earlier tonight, during the game—they both had a chance to take each other out, and they didn’t. Eist shot me instead.”

Visindra hummed at that. “Cal not doing everything to win, that is a first.”

“Right? That’s probably the most concerning bit.”

They both chuckled at the thought.

Visindra shifted closer still, her hand coming up to lightly tug at the hem of Alcise’s shirt. “Let’s see those battlescars.”

“I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.” Alcise pulled her in for a kiss. Visindra hummed in approval.

They didn’t worry about Calanthe, or her heart, for the rest of the night.

* * *

It was late, but Eist couldn’t sleep. His brain kept replaying the events of the day, over and over in his head. He felt a bit spoiled, having so much time with Calanthe, one-on-one. And like any spoiled child, he only wanted more.

He wanted more, not just because she had a wickedly delightful sense of humor, or the keen ability to turn any phrase into some kind of innuendo. And not just because she was pleasing on the eyes (he still couldn’t get over just how _right_ she looked, dirty and disheveled and half-beaten and bruised—that shouldn’t be something he found hot, he thought, but here he was). And not just because she was utterly fascinating, in her ability to turn on an emotional dime, shifting gears and slipping behind masks with effortless ease.

More than anything, he wanted more because, in the moments of genuine vulnerability, he saw something soft, something deeply intelligent and also deeply afraid of being seen—and he wanted _that_ part of her to feel safe, to feel that being seen was a good thing.

He thought of her face, when she’d accused him of lying. There was something…genuinely hurt, in her expression. Something raw and aching and unhealed.

For some reason, it reminded him of the hawks that he used to rescue, as a child. Around age ten, his parents had another section of paned glass added to the garden atop the castle at Kaer Trolde, to create more of a greenhouse effect for the plants. For the first few months, the hawks would crash into it, confused by something that had not been there before. They’d been dazed and injured, but still very much wild creatures. He’d been overwhelmed with an instinct to help them—and most of them, he had successfully nursed back to health before releasing them into the wild again.

He felt that same instinct with Calanthe. Yes, she was a wild creature, entirely unto herself. And he had no desire to tame her. Just to…hold her, and heal her, until she was strong enough to fly again.

She didn’t need his help, he knew. And she certainly hadn’t asked for it. Still, he wanted her to know that it _was_ available, if ever she did want to ask.

_And what happens if she does ask?_ His inner voice prompted. _She’s not a damn bird. You can’t just scoop her up and take her home._

That was an intriguing thought—one which he quickly disavowed (still, his hands hummed at the memory of her body beneath them, surprisingly soft, shifting with movement).

Besides, his inner voice had a point. In nine days, he’d pack up his things and go back to his life, leaving her to her own life as well. There’d be no reason for them to meet, ever again.

The thought caused a physical pang in his chest. Why did it matter so much?

He scrubbed his hand across his face, stifling a sigh. With a sudden sense of determination, he decided to get up and go for a walk. That was his usual cure of sleepless nights—and a privilege he wouldn’t get to enjoy for another week, once they returned to the palace.

Quietly, being sure not to wake up Mousesack, he slipped out of the tent, glancing around curiously.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

Further away, at the beginning of the hill’s downward slope, a figure sat in a camp chair, far removed from the tents or the jeeps. The moon illuminated enough for him to make out the mess of braids, pulled into a bun.

Calanthe. The name practically pulled him forward. He made sure to make a little extra noise as he got closer, warning her of his approach.

She shifted and looked up at him in soft surprise.

He, too, felt a ripple of mild shock.

She was wearing glasses. Reading glasses. A digital tablet sat in her lap, screen dimly glowing. She was in a pair of loose linen pants and another fitted longsleeve t-shirt, her feet completely bare, toes burrowed happily in the sand. She’d scrubbed herself clean and applied a new bandage to her face. Somehow, she looked like a completely different person and perfectly herself, at the exact same time.

“Sorry.” He motioned to the tablet. “Didn’t mean to disturb your reading.”

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright.” She waved him closer, her voice low and a bit tired sounding. “I wasn’t truly paying attention to it, anyways.”

“Care for some company?”

“I would, but you’ll have to do,” she drawled, offering a slow grin. He huffed in amusement, simply taking a seat on the ground beside her chair.

She looked down at him, smiling again.

“Nice glasses,” he commented. Her hand fluttered up, as if to self-consciously touch them, but she pulled back before reaching her face. There was something…adorably endearing about the gesture.

Still, her voice was as unshy as always. “Tell anyone and I’ll murder you, bury your body in the sand, and tell everyone that you simply ran off with Miss Talke.”

“Wouldn’t Miss Talke refute your story?”

“If she were around to do so, perhaps.” Calanthe gave a slight shrug of her shoulder, as if murdering Miss Talke to add to the alibi wouldn't faze her in the least (oh, he didn't know how true that was). Eist laughed at her theatrical ways.

He thought back to the first day they met, the way she didn’t even glance at the paper he gave her—and the first night she looked at photos, how she leaned away from the laptop slightly. She hadn’t been making a power move or afraid of what she might see—she’d simply been trying to hide the fact that she needed glasses.

He wanted to laugh. She truly was the most fascinating thing he’d ever met.

“They’re just glasses,” he pointed out.

“It’s still a weakness,” she returned, easily enough. She glanced down, powering off the tablet. “I don’t mind needing them, I just—perception is everything, in my world.”

“Yeah,” he admitted softly. “It’s one of the many reasons I left it. One of the many reasons I focus on writing the truth.”

She hummed at that.

“Still,” he added. “Lots of world leaders wear glasses. I don’t think anyone would consider it a weakness, in the least.”

“You’d be surprised,” she countered. Gingerly, she removed them, setting them atop her head. “Particularly when you’ve crafted a certain image of…invincibility.”

“How’s that working for you?” He asked, genuinely curious. “The whole invincible thing?”

“Quite well,” she informed him warmly, glancing over with a smile. She merely watched him for a beat, her expression slowly shifting to something more serious. Quietly, she spoke, “I didn’t mean it like that, before.”

He frowned slightly, not sure what she was referring to.

She clarified, “When I called the war _the good old days_ —I didn’t mean the war itself. Hell, only a fool or a psychopath would find anything good in that clusterfuck of blood and suffering.”

Her voice went a little raw, on the last bit. But Eist understood the sentiment—and agreed with it, wholeheartedly.

“I meant…the sense of freedom I had then. The sense of…truly fulfilling my duty, while still having a destiny that was…more my own.”

He shifted, facing her a bit more. Her head was bowed again, fingertip tracing around the edge of her tablet.

A little hawk, he thought. Still a bit dazed.

Oh, how he wanted to help. Gently, he ventured, “Do you feel that your destiny isn’t your own, now?”

“No more or less so than it’s ever been,” she answered philosophically. “Just…I was young and naive and didn’t know it then, I guess.”

She turned to him again, with an almost-sad smile, “But I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

He understood the question. He’d left behind the life that she still led.

“What’s it like?” She asked curiously, tilting her head a bit. “Living without expectation?”

“Easier to breathe,” he answered honestly. Then he really considered the question. “But…I left _because_ I had expectations for myself. Not because I was running from them—but because I wanted to fulfill them, to be the man I needed to be.”

“Explain,” she prompted, expression furrowing into a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

“As the third royal child, my expectation was to get married, have more royal children, and spend my life attending petty state dinners and making public appearances to smile and wave. That’s it. A little charity work on the side.”

“You still had the Royal Navy,” she pointed out gently.

“Not for long,” he admitted. “There was already intense pressure for me to step back to a less active role— _too dangerous to risk it_ , that was the common theme. I needed to be focused on settling down and producing more members for the royal line.”

“Ah.” Her tone was filled with wry knowing. “Yes, they do love to worry over the state of your reproductive abilities, don’t they?”

He hummed in agreement, “I’m sure you felt far more pressure than I did, on that front.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Being the only child of an only child certainly has some…interesting side-effects. I’m afraid Pavetta is condemned to the same fate—though I’ll cut out any tongue that dares to ask her half the questions that I was subjected to, over the years.”

He felt that she was actually being perfectly honest, not an ounce of hyperbole.

Quietly, she added, “I hadn’t wanted only one child. Granted, I also hadn’t wanted Pavetta when I got pregnant—or at least, I hadn’t wanted her _yet_. I wanted to be a bit older, before starting a family.”

“Accidents happen,” he offered.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sabotage does, too.”

He stiffened at that. She noted his shift in body language, glanced over with an almost careless air. “It’s not nearly as awful as you’re imagining it to be, I’m sure. I just…made it very clear to my husband that I was not ready for children, and took the necessary precautions. He, on the other hand, chose a less clear route in expressing his own desires to start a family immediately—namely by replacing my birth control with placebos.”

“That’s still awful,” he returned. He felt a tightness in his chest, burning up his throat like bile. Calanthe had remained so unaffected, so blasé in her recitation—but now that he knew her better, he knew that only proved just how hard she was trying to hide the pain of it, all these years later.

But she wasn’t hiding, he realized—she was being honest with him. Open.

“Trust me.” She smirked mirthlessly. “Karma was a bitch, in that department.”

Then she shifted again, seeming almost chagrined at her own response.

“I’m sorry.” She looked away. “I shouldn’t have—that’s more than you wanted to know.”

“No, no.” He kept his voice gentle, almost afraid of spooking her. “I’m just…honored, actually.”

She turned back to look at him, face skewed in complete confusion.

“I don’t imagine many people know that story,” he said simply. “I’m…I’m glad that you trust me enough to share it.”

Her expression melted into something softer. “I shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because I’m a reporter?”

“Because I don’t know you.” She blinked, as if the answer was obvious.

“What do you want to know?” He sat up a bit at that.

_You_ , her mind replied. _I want to know you._

Her throat tightened again as she looked down at him, looking up at her with that open, soft expression and those eyes that seemed so much darker in the moonlight. So eager to please, so ready to give her anything she asked, if only she asked.

So many men (and quite a few women, too) had looked at her with similar expressions of wonderment and admiration. But it had always been tainted by the allure of her crown, the power she wielded and the effect it had on people. It had always been accompanied by the feeling of being an item on display at a museum—on a pedestal, not completely revealed, viewable from one angle only, still separated by a protective layer from the reality of the other person’s world. She was merely a breathing fairy-tale to them.

And fairy-tales, like all stories, always had an ending. They served a purpose, fulfilled a fantasy, then were put back on the shelf.

Somehow, Eist’s gaze didn’t hold the same note of delusion. He’d known the reality of her crown and her power, in some way—at least far better than most—and he’d walked away from it. And he’d seen her, out of her palace, out of her role as queen, dirty and undignified in the desert. And still, he looked upon her like this.

He also looked like the most delicious thing she’d seen in a while—barefoot, in grey sweatpants and a loose t-shirt that once again gave a glimpse of more tattoos, hair adorably mussed. He was unshaven, a little rough around the edges—and yet she knew that if she stood up, if she leaned down and pushed him back against the sand and sank into him, he’d still be the softest thing she’d ever had.

She couldn’t have the physical comfort of his softness. She’d gladly take another version, though. The softness of his voice, of his kindness, of the little bubble they’d created here, underneath the summer moon.

Quietly, she said, “Your expectations for yourself—the ones that made you leave the royal life. What were they?”

He swallowed thickly, his gaze still locked onto hers. He took a moment before answering. “I wanted…more. To be more, to do more. We both served in the war—you probably saw a lot of the same things I did, over the years. All the blood and violence, all the needless bombing of helpless people who were at the mercy of their rulers, just…trying to survive the atrocities of their own government, compacted by the atrocities our governments were committing against them in the name of liberation.”

She hummed at that. The sound seemed to fill the whole world. He hadn’t blinked, hadn’t stopped holding her gaze—granted, he felt as if _she_ were holding _his_ , because he was absolutely helpless to look away. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, shifting and swirling with various emotions as he spoke, dark and deep as the night sky. It was like coming face to face with one of the old gods, having your soul opened and lain bare for judgment.

“I needed to…undo the damage I’d done. The damage I’d condoned.” He finally blinked, but she never stopped watching him, never stopped peeling back more layers with a simple gaze. “I wanted to rebuild the places we’d destroyed. Wanted to raise funds to get the people back on their feet. And I was told that wasn’t the way of things. That it was a sign of weakness, to backtrack on a decision.”

Now she blinked, a familiar look of hurt welling up in her eyes. He knew she’d heard similar arguments, too. And she’d listened.

Still, he continued, “I wanted to be a better man than that. Someone who owned up to their mistakes, who did what was necessary to make it right, when they fucked up. So I gave my parents an ultimatum: support my efforts to aid the southern lands, or accept my renouncement.”

Her entire face tightened with realization—she knew their answer, because he sat here now, a renounced prince.

“You were right,” she said quietly. She swallowed the tightness in her throat before clarifying, “The day we met—when I called you the lost prince, you said you hadn’t been lost for quite some time. I…I think maybe you never have been at all.”

He could hear the apology in her voice. The regret she had, for using that moniker several times since that moment.

“No, no.” He took on a lighter, conversational air. “I definitely still lost myself for a while. Wild parties, wilder sexcapades. The whole debauched-fallen-prince lifestyle.”

She chuckled warmly at that, sitting back in her chair again and breaking eye contact. She tilted her face up to the night sky and quietly queried, “And now? Do you feel that you’ve met those expectations?”

“Mostly, yes,” he admitted. He watched her profile as she processed his words. “I mean, it’s something I constantly have to meet, again and again, every day. Once I finished my poor-little-lost-prince pity party, I joined a charity organization that helped rebuild damaged villages, mainly schools—”

“Which one?” She looked back at him. Her entire body was lined with curiosity.

“The Golden Line….” He trailed off, truly hearing the actual reference for the first time.

Line… _Lion_. Calanthe's personal coat of arms was a single, golden lioness. He looked at her again, the grin blossoming across her face confirming it.

“That was mine,” she confessed.

“But—Cintra didn’t—Cintra never admitted to sending aid—”

“Because they didn’t. _I_ did.”

“How?” He was both confused and delighted.

“As part of my dowry, I was…in possession of a large number of jewels which are not considered part of the royal collection,” she sniffed a bit, glancing out at the desert. “I had Alcise sell them, through various channels, so it couldn’t get traced back to me. And then she took the funds and found someone willing to start a charity. Alcise chose the name, though. She always liked little clever things like that.” Then, with a light wave of her hand in his direction, she added, “That’s another one you’ll have to take to your grave.”

“On my honor.”

She hummed at that. Then she waved him on again, “Continue. The charity organizations—the brilliant one that you happened to choose, which no doubt did the absolute most good, out of them all.”

“No doubt,” he agreed, earning a low chuckle in response. “That’s how I got into journalism, truth be told. I started writing for the newsletter. Then sending pieces to larger publications, to gain support. It…snowballed from there, I guess. I became a war correspondent because I wanted to show people the truth behind the glorious notion of war that they were supporting. To show them the faces that looked so much like their own. To…give a voice to the voiceless.”

“My, you are a noble thing,” she drawled wryly. Her voice was tinged with patronizing amusement, almost dismissively so. Somehow, Eist still heard the note of genuine admiration running underneath.

And he noticed the way she glanced over, as if making sure that he understood, that she hadn’t hit too hard or upset him.

He merely smiled back, silently reassuring her. The light tension in her body eased. She held his gaze for a beat longer, her face becoming impassively somber.

“Please don’t think for a single second that our newfound level of respect will in any way stop me from handing your arse to you, tomorrow,” she intoned.

He laughed at that, knowing full well that she meant every word. “I would assume you had no respect for me at all, if you didn’t bring your best to the table.”

She grinned at that, sly and wolfish and warm. “Good.”

Then she sat back once more, turning her face to the moon and closing her eyes. She looked so pleased that Eist half-expected her to start purring contentedly.

Again, she reminded him of the hawks from his childhood—at the point when they realized that he could be trusted, and they allowed themselves to be helped.

He replayed, yet again, her face when she'd said that she didn’t like lying. Layered it with a deeper sense of understanding, knowing what he now knew about her conception of Pavetta. Yes, that would create trust issues for anyone—especially since, if Eist remembered correctly, Roegner and Calanthe had been married for a few years at that point. She’d probably felt as if she could trust him, only to find out that he’d betrayed her, in one of the deepest and most intimate ways, turning her own body against her.

He felt another wash of anger at the thought. Understood her wariness over mentioning her husband, her adamant refusal to ever take one again. Wondered if that was why there had only been one child, in the end—because Calanthe had shut him out of her life as much as possible. Royal couples didn’t divorce; it simply wasn’t done. But he’d seen firsthand how they could easily structure their lives to basically live in separation (yet another reason he’d refused the call to marriage—the idea of being forever trapped in something bitter and loveless absolutely terrified him). A part of him hoped that she’d done that, found some sense of power and control afterwards.

That had to have been nearly twenty-two years ago, Eist realized numbly. But the hurt was still evident, the rage and the confusion. He knew that she didn’t regret her daughter, which probably only complicated the matter for her.

She had overcome and healed, he could tell. But some scars remained. And sometimes they ached, occasionally.

Sometimes the hawks’ wings didn’t reset properly, and they needed a little extra help. A few extra days to rebuild their strength, to learn how to adjust to a different way of flying, a different way of navigating a world they once traversed with complete ease.

Maybe it was a bit like that, he thought. She’d healed just fine on her own, but maybe, he could make her feel a little more…seen. A little more healed.

He braced his hands behind him, leaning further back and looking up at the stars. Yes, they only had nine days left—but what harm would it do, to help her, however he could?

* * *

Calanthe could feel her body slipping into sleep. She almost let it—Eist was here, she was perfectly safe. However, she really had been careless enough for one night.

She gingerly sat up, giving a low push of breath as her body instantly reacted—she’d been seated for too long and her now-cold therma-wraps weren’t helping in the least. Her muscles were stiff and angry.

Still, she grabbed the tablet in her lap and rose to her feet.

Eist was up in a flash, hands out to help keep her steady. Even before he touched her, her body kicked into overdrive, flushing with warmth.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said quietly, waving away the help (those hands, she wouldn’t be responsible for what she did, if they actually touched her again). He merely stepped back, grabbing her camp chair and folding it up, tucking it under his arm and following her back across the sand.

Once they got closer, she lowered her voice, to make sure no one else could overhear. “Goodnight, and—thank you, Eist.”

“For what?” His voice was lined with gentle confusion.

She looked up, unable to stop the smile bleeding across her entire face. Of course, he was confused. In his mind, in his world, he hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary at all. _Thank you for being you_ , she wanted say.

Instead, she offered, “For your honesty.”

Now he smiled back at her. “Thank you for yours. And for…trusting me with it.”

Trust was a big thing for him, she realized. And truly, she understood. It was for her, too.

In fact, she’d told herself just this evening that she wouldn’t trust him again. And look at her—less than six hours later, doing just that. But dinner had worn down her resolve, with Eist making ridiculous jokes and telling wild stories that had everyone in tears of mirth. He was so…earnest, in everything he did. It was overwhelming. She’d been too exhausted to fight her own compulsion to spill her soul to him, when he looked at her in the moonlight, soft and trusting and trustworthy.

But she didn’t feel wary or upset with herself, this time. Though she did feel something.

“Goodnight,” she said again, giving a small nod as she moved in the direction of her tent.

Gently, she heard him echo it back. Something at the edges of his tone made her entire body ripple with a feeling of indescribable softness.

He was still dangerous, she realized. But he wouldn’t hurt her.

* * *

The next morning, Calanthe’s body was far too sore to attempt anything beyond walking to and from the complex. She did spend a good deal of time in the sauna, hoping the heat would help. While it did, the dehydration did not.

Eventually, she retreated back to her tent, stretching out face-down on the camp bed and letting her one good arm dangle off the edge, playing a card game with Hille.

Unfortunately, Hille had a cracking sense of humor, and her quips and asides often had Calanthe wincing and groaning as the laughter sent more jolts of pain through her ribs and shoulder. Hille never relented, though, and Calanthe endured like a true martyr.

Eist still went racing, with Pavetta, Duny, and Visindra. Alcise and Mousesack chose a day by the pool, along with Triss and Renfri. Danek posted outside the queen’s tent with a good book, and Fringilla stayed in her own tent, citing a light headache from last night’s drinking, which had continued well after dinner.

Today’s racing featured no death-defying feats, thankfully. As they walked back up to base camp, Pavetta lightly suggested, “You should go check on Mother. Challenge her to a game or something, give poor Hille a break.”

It was obviously directed at Eist.

Visindra’s eyebrows lifted at that.

Eist merely shrugged, “I’m not sure that she’d welcome my company over anyone else’s.”

“Oh, trust me. She would.” Pavetta’s tone was laced with a coy sense of knowing.

Visindra’s eyes became the size of saucers.

They trudged through the sand. Eist peeled off, headed to his own tent. Visindra followed Pavetta and Duny straight into theirs.

“Duny, out.” She commanded, her tone low and brooking no refusals. The young man wisely obeyed.

Pavetta turned back to her with a slight frown of confusion.

Visindra set her hands on her hips, fixing the young girl was a serious stare. “Whatever little game you’ve got going here, it ends now.”

“What?”

“Do not embarrass your mother like that, ever again.”

“What?” Pavetta felt a flash of anger—and chagrin, because she realized there was a note of truth to it.

“I don’t care what you see, or what you think you see happening right now—but don’t you _ever_ make those kinds of insinuations about the queen, particularly in front of outsiders.”

She wasn’t sure that she’d ever seen Visindra this angry—at least not at her. Hot tears pricked her eyes.

“I…I didn’t mean to…” She faltered. That wasn’t entirely true—of course she’d meant to, she meant for Eist to understand that his feelings towards her mother were mutual. So she redirected, simply saying, “I just want her to be happy, Sin.”

Visindra’s stern expression melted at that. She moved closer, placing her hands on Pavetta’s upper arms. “I know, duckling. But…happiness, for your mother, is a little different.”

“Eist makes her happy.”

“For now.” Visindra gave a pained smile. “You can’t understand all the reasons why this isn’t a good idea, but—”

“Then make me understand,” Pavetta challenged, leaning in a bit. “I’m not a child, Visindra. I can handle—”

She stopped, struck by the way Visindra’s expression crumpled in a mixture of heartbreak and affection. Her godmother gently cupped the side of her face and she quietly proclaimed, “I know you can handle it. But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Pavetta blinked at that, not sure that she wanted to press for more. Visindra wasn’t the serious, somber one; it was unsettling to see her like this.

“Just…don’t push it, anymore,” Visindra whispered. “Your mother can make her own choices about her own happiness. It’s not ours to decide. Ok?”

“Ok.” Pavetta nodded, throat feeling tight.

“Ok.” Visindra smiled, nose scrunching again. She pulled the young woman into a hug. “I love you, imp.”

“I love you, too, Sin.”

Visindra squeezed her, just a bit tighter, just a beat longer. Pavetta’s head swirled with questions.

Her mother did join everyone for lunch. And she sat next to Eist again—occasionally, they ducked their heads together, sharing low asides only between themselves and chuckling softly in response. Pavetta watched the interaction with new eyes.

What was so wrong about this? She wondered. Her mother’s glowing cheeks and dancing eyes, Eist’s adoration-laced glances and constantly-smiling mouth—how could this ever be a bad thing?

But she also saw the looks that Hille, Alcise, and Visindra exchanged. Wary, worried. They were her mother’s oldest friends. Alcise and Hille had known Calanthe, all of her life. And Visindra had been around since before Pavetta was born. They knew better than Pavetta ever could.

They also knew something she didn’t. Something dark and terrible. The certainty settled like a stone in Pavetta’s gut, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

* * *

“Alright, hit me with your best shot,” Eist declared, tossing down a set of cards. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Calanthe’s tent while she stretched out face-down on her camp bed again, half-hanging over the side to get a better view of the card game below her.

She hummed at that, as if certain that he wasn’t ready. She tossed down a set at well.

“That’s it?” He was incredulous. “That’s your best shot?”

“That’s the best shot I have at my disposal, yes,” she returned easily. She shifted again, rolling onto her back and pulling her pillow under her head. She held her remaining cards over her face as she shuffled through them, squinting slightly.

“Should I get your glasses for you?”

“You should get your mouth fucking shut.” Her tone was bored, completely devoid of emotion. Still, the corner of her mouth curled into a smile.

He gave her two more cards from the deck. She made a soft noise of thanks as she added them to her hand. He simply watched her for a moment.

She really was beautiful, he thought. Right now, she was relaxed and unguarded and radiating with a sense of warm contentedness. She nibbled her bottom lip as she studied her cards, obviously trying to decide on her next play, and he found himself wishing that Mousesack and his camera were here, to capture this exact shot.

“Stop trying to read my cards,” she warned.

He ducked his head and laughed softly, wishing it were that simple.

He selected his next set and waited for her to make her decision. She finally chose and languidly extended her arm, holding the cards out to him.

“You can’t put them on the pile yourself?”

“I don’t feel like rolling over again. I’m an invalid, remember?”

He rolled his eyes at that. She’d really begun milking her condition for all it was worth.

She fluttered her hand again, drawing attention to the cards. The impatience in her simple gesture was evident.

For some reason, he felt a petty need to not let her win. He gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist, directed her hand over the pile of cards on the floor, and said, “There. Now you can drop them on the pile.”

She didn’t. She simply waited.

“Seriously?” He was slightly surprised that this amused him, rather than irritated.

“I asked you to do it,” she returned, still focused on the cards in her other hand. There was almost an edge to her tone— _I asked you to do it, and I expect to be obeyed_.

“Except you didn’t ask,” he pointed out.

“Nonverbally, yes I did. And you understood, perfectly well.” She shifted, just a little. Her wrist slid in his grip as well. He couldn’t stop his thumb’s involuntary reflex to push further in, against the skin at her pulse point.

She stilled, but didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“Just drop the cards,” he suggested. For some reason, he felt the need to lower his voice.

“Just take them from my hand,” she countered, matching his tone.

A beat passed. Eist wasn’t sure why either of them was digging their heels in, but it seemed too late to back down.

“Compromise,” he announced. Using his free hand, he lightly plucked one card from her grasp. “There. Now drop the other one.”

Now she looked over at him, grinning mischievously. “I don’t do compromise, Eist Tuirseach. I thought you would have realized that by now.”

She waited, holding his gaze. Her hand began to roll in a small circle, as if teasing him, fluttering the final card between her fingertips.

He waited as well. Half out of stubbornness, half because he was a bit pinned in place by those dark eyes, dancing with such unrepentant glee.

She bit her bottom lip again, but it did nothing to keep back the smile spreading over her face.

What he wouldn’t give, to see that expression in an entirely different setting. Playing an entirely different game.

She seemed to read his thoughts, because her grin deepened, fully etching out the creases around her eyes. Those eyes, they’d be the death of him, he thought, not particularly upset over such a fate.

“It’s just a card,” she prompted, her voice low and teasing.

Like their quiet conversation on the hilltop last night, he felt as if he were face to face with one of the old gods—this one, however, was a trickster, a goddess of chaos, tempting him with something seemingly innocent, something that was far deeper than he realized.

“It is,” he agreed, a bit thickly. “And you can just drop it.”

She hummed at that. “And you can just _take_ it.”

She intentionally added innuendo to her tone. Her expression left no doubt on that front.

And while Eist Tuirseach was fairly certain he’d gladly take anything this woman gave, he also was invested in this power play.

She watched him with a lazy, amused sense of curiosity. She’d wait him out all day, if that’s what it took.

Time to get creative.

Calanthe saw the look of determination settle on his features, and she felt a wave of trepidation and anticipation. Her arm was already burning from the simple touch of his fingers around her wrist (the night she accosted him for his taste in younger women, she’d imagined pinning his wrists down, but gods above, the reverse didn’t seem like a bad scenario right now, either).

His free hand came up, fingertips trilling at the base of her palm. Her hand twitched involuntarily at the contact, but she kept her grip on the card. She felt a smug flutter of victory. _Nice try, but no dice._

However, he didn’t give up. His index and middle finger simply traced their way up her palm, heavy enough to be felt but light enough to almost tickle.

The sensation of fire rippled up her arm again, and not from her strained muscles. The heat seeped into her chest, tightening her lungs. She couldn’t stop the soft, half-strangled sigh that escaped.

Eist’s brain nearly exploded at the sound. _Fucking hell_ , he thought. It was like the night before, at the standoff on the rooftop. Somehow a seemingly-innocuous scenario was the most electrifying moment he’d ever experienced. Calanthe wasn’t grinning anymore; her expression was entirely melted into something soft and needy. The steady pull and rise of her chest, the sudden darkening of her eyes, the soft parting of her lips—fully dressed, she was the most pornographic thing he’d ever seen.

He could stay here for ages, he thought numbly. Just watching this. He let his fingertips wander at will, swirling over various lines in her palm. She shifted slightly against the pillow beneath her, almost ducking her head but keeping her eyes entirely focused on him.

She truly was a lioness, he realized. Even now, even with her hand caught in his, she was like some hunter, slowly watching its prey. Waiting for the right moment to pounce. She was both soft and feral and he couldn’t quite figure out how anyone could be both at the exact same time.

One thing he did know: it couldn’t go beyond this. As delicious and intriguing as this moment was, that’s all it was—a moment. The formalities and titles might not exist for this weekend, but they were still very real, and very much apart of the life that would continue after they left this place, both physically and emotionally. Even the way she studied him was filled with a slight air of hesitation, as if she was ready to pull back at the slightest hint of any further advances on his part. But for now, she simply watched in fascination.

It couldn’t go beyond this. That didn’t mean this couldn’t be enjoyed the fullest.

Her fingers were curling inward, brushing against his hand more and more with each movement. He let his other hand, still around her wrist, tighten its grip slightly, thumb pressing smaller circles into her pulse point. Her hand twittered, the flexed tendons of her wrist pushing deeper into his touch. She stifled another small, soft sound, and his heart nearly pounded out of his chest.

Calanthe’s sex life had been far from boring or unimaginative. But she’d never felt as if she were somehow being fucked though the simple touching of hands. Her hips were screaming with tension and her skin felt like electricity. And the man hadn't strayed past parts of her that a pair of wrist-length gloves would cover.

_You really are touch starved_ , her half-addled mind retorted.

_I am,_ she agreed. _But oh, isn’t this glorious?_

The best part was that Eist wasn’t pushing for anything more. Somehow, he seemed to understand the boundaries of this weekend, without any actual discussion at all.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t _want_ to push past those boundaries. She kept her eyes locked on him, completely entranced by the hunger in his gaze. She knew then and there that she could pin him to the floor of this tent, do the most unspeakable things, and he’d gladly lay himself out, gladly give whatever she wanted to take. Had there ever been a more willing victim to her charms?

But he waited. He wanted and he waited, never expecting anything more than exactly what she’d already given him.

She wished she could give him more.

Danek’s voice rose from outside the tent—Hille was approaching, she could hear her exchanging greetings with him.

Eist released his grip, taking the card from her fingertips and tossing it onto the pile.

That had more effect on her that anything. Because he’d capitulated a point of pride, in an attempt to shield her reputation. They both returned to their cards, as if they were in the middle of the most intense card game that the world had ever seen.

“Knock-knock,” Hille announced, pulling back the curtain. If she noticed their flushed expressions, she didn’t show it. “I’ve cleared everything with General Amurra, we’ll be set to take off at six.”

Calanthe gave a curt nod of approval. “Thank you, Hille.”

“Would you like me to help you pack?”

“I can manage.” Calanthe smiled wryly. “But thank you.”

Hille nodded and disappeared once more.

A beat passed. Calanthe turned her gaze back to Eist. She was practically brimming with glee.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Just…taking the card.”

He simply hung his head and laughed. _This woman_ , he thought.

She shifted, and he looked up to see her checking her watch. The little frown at the corners of her mouth only confirmed his previous suspicion. Real life was returning soon, and whatever lovely little thing had grown in this desert was running out of time.

“You know,” she spoke quietly, almost as if afraid of her own words. “I think it’s best I take a walk, before we leave. Two hours in the helicopter is going to be torturous enough, without adding circulation issues.”

He made a small noise of agreement, shifting to shuffle up the rest of the cards.

“Will you join me?”

He looked up again, feeling a mild wash of surprise at the request.

“Of course.” The words slipped out, before he could even truly consider them. She smiled softly.

The walk was a rather leisurely one, as Calanthe’s injuries didn’t really allow for fast-paced movement. Once they were further away from camp and any potential eavesdroppers, she ducked her head and cleared her throat.

“About...before," she began. He waited. She didn’t continue.

_I’m sorry,_ she should say. _I took it too far, and I’m sorry._

But that would be a lie. She wasn’t sorry. And she didn’t like lying.

So instead she took a deep breath and kept her voice flat and strong. “I'm sure you're well-aware of all the reasons that won't...happen again.”

He hummed. “Yes, I don’t expect we’ll have time for cards games, once we return.”

She nodded in agreement. He understood, then.

“Still.” His tone was laced with a sly sense of camaraderie. “The thought of it is rather nice, isn’t it?”

He glanced over at her with a boyish grin. She knew that behind his sunglasses, those blue eyes were twinkling with mischief.

Her throat tightened and her heart ricocheted against her ribs. She ducked her head and fought back a smile of her own, “I suppose so, yes.”

“You _suppose_?” He teased lightly. He placed his hand over his chest. “Madame, my pride is wounded.”

Now she grinned fully.

He sobered a bit. “I meant what I said before. I am a professional. And I stand by my oath when I promise to keep things off the record.”

She hummed at that. Then, softly, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Tuirseach.”

He didn’t correct her. It was still technically the weekend trip, and they were miles and miles away from the palace. But he let her put the extra measure of distance between them. He’d let her do whatever she needed.

They continued on, talking like they did the night before, though the subjects were not quite as deep. She asked him about his most recent trip to Metinna; he asked about the continued work of The Golden Line. It was pleasant.

And through it all, Eist had the distinct feeling that she was, in her own quiet way, saying goodbye.

As much as it stung, he let her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey loves. I just need y'all to know that it wasn't my intention to leave today's update on such a note. I'd planned on having another chapter to balance things out emotionally, but...I live in Los Angeles, and if you've kept an eye on the news recently, you can imagine my life is a little insane.  
> It's a bit hard to write, when your friends are texting you that they've been trapped in their home by authorities tear-gassing their street, even though there aren't any protests going on in that area. Or when your drive home gets rerouted by 30+ police units responding to less than 150 peaceful protesters two blocks from your house, and you spend your evening making sure protesters get to their cars safely, all the while hearing the rubber bullets being fired a block over.  
> Even as I type this, the world outside my window is a cacophony of sirens.  
> I'm not telling you this so that you can feel sorry for me, or worry about me. I'm not looking for pity or a pat on the back or whatever else. I'm telling you because it is a story that needs to be told. A reality that needs to be seen.  
> I know this is a tough time, and it has been for a while, for most of us. I try to provide a sense of escape with these fics, and I'm sorry that I can't quite focus on doing that as much right now.  
> But sometimes, we cannot escape. And we cannot look away.  
> Please do what you can, however you can.  
> And stay safe, babies. Stay kind, stay brave, and stay safe <3


	18. When You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so heads up: today's update will be THREE chapters, but the third chapter may be added a few hours later. So unless the version you're seeing shows 20 chapters, come back a bit later to grab the last one, mkay?  
> Thank you, as always, for your patience and kindness through this journey <3

**Aretuza, Thanedd Island.**

As usual whenever overseeing a story, Tissaia de Vries had alerts set on her phone. Anytime a story’s subject was mentioned in a news article, she got a notification, and a link.

Tonight’s stopped her heart entirely. Truth Seeker International—Yennefer’s current employer—had posted an article about Queen Calanthe.

With growing dread, she clicked on the link. She felt a small measure of relief—it wasn’t an actual article, but rather an announcement for an upcoming investigatory series.

However, the series’ teaser immediately put her back on alert.

_Coming Soon: The Queen of Cintra’s Secret Life. Yennefer Vengerberg investigates a part of the queen’s past that never made it to the front page—or any page, for that matter._

Fuck. Tissaia felt a spike of irritation. This was obviously an opening salvo, aimed at her. She’d spoken to Sabrina, who’d mentioned seeing Yennefer in Verden last week. Evidently Sabrina had spoken about Eist’s assignment with Yennefer, and now, as usual, the young woman was hell-bent on being a thorn in Tissaia’s side.

She probably didn’t actually have anything, Tissaia thought wryly. She just wanted to get Tissaia’s attention, to piss her off.

But if she _did_ have something…Tissaia hesitated. Then she sighed.

She pulled up a list of flights to Aedirn, booking the earliest available one.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

_So it begins_ , Calanthe thought with a low, long sigh. She’d been awake for nearly two hours, but had spent a lazy morning in bed, continuing her reading from the weekend while applying an electric heating pad to her injured shoulder.

Ezondre Talke had sparked something inside her, when she’d mentioned reading all of Eist’s work.

Naturally, Calanthe needed to see what all the fuss was about. She’d been reading one of his articles, when he’d joined her, two nights ago on the hilltop. By now, she’d made it through a large portion of his published work, and once again, she’d realized just how perfect he was for this assignment.

He had a way with words. He could paint a picture with them—and more importantly, he could call forth an emotional response with them. If he gave half this amount of effort and skill for Pavetta’s piece, then she’d come out the winner indeed.

That was why he was here, she reminded herself. For Pavetta. That was his only role and purpose—if Calanthe wanted something else, she needed to go elsewhere to find it.

She’d enjoyed her little weekend away, more so than she’d expected. Of course, it hadn’t gone as expected, either. She’d imagined a few bits of bantering, some light flirting, maybe enough teasing to build up a slight sexual charge—nothing beyond anything she wouldn’t do at a state dinner, if she were bored and someone was interesting enough, truth be told.

But things had devolved, almost immediately. Nothing had gone according to plan, and yet, she found herself rather pleased with the results.

More than pleased, she thought, feeling another flush through her chest at the memory of yesterday afternoon’s card game, the strange and sensual moment it had created. Yes, she’d definitely thought of _that_ last night, after she was tucked into her own bed again. Idly, she wondered if Eist—wait, _no_ , Mr. Tuirseach—had experienced a similar evening.

It didn’t matter if he had, or hadn’t, she reminded herself, whipping back the covers and immediately regretting her hasty actions as her strained muscles screamed in protest. It was over and now the whirlwind began. She would see him for maybe twenty minutes a day, in her office with Visindra and Mr. Moussek in attendance as well.

There’d be no time for such things. No time for deep, quiet conversations like they’d shared in the desert. She was going to miss that, she realized. But not for long—she had Hille, and Alcise, and Visindra. And Triss was slowly entering that sphere of absolute, deep trust, too.

She didn’t need him. He was lovely and he was kind, and yes he was attractive as hell, in far more ways than just physically, but she didn’t need him.

_Keep moving_ , she told herself. _You enjoyed your little respite, but now it’s time to move on._

* * *

Eist answered the familiar knock on his door to see Mousesack’s impassive face. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Mousesack led the way back to his own chambers, which faced the western side of the palace—the side that looked out to the city, and the wide street that ran in front of the palace gates.

It was just after dawn. Already, people were crowding and milling about. Some had signs. A few had Cintran flags. The metal fence was lined with bouquets of various sizes and colors.

“Happy birthday, princess,” Eist said quietly.

The insanity had officially begun.

* * *

Visindra insisted on cake for breakfast—or at least as part of it. Pavetta rolled her eyes, but still grinned and ate her cake, all the same.

Calanthe was not present, much to Eist’s disappointment. Still, he held out hope of seeing her soon—today, being the princess’ birthday, was filled with plenty of pomp and circumstance. Namely a parade, which would pass by the palace. The front lawn was already fitted with a large podium, where Pavetta would watch and wave to the crowds as well. Most of the crowd assembled outside were waiting for the parade—and the Royal Wings aerial display that would follow.

“And who will be on the podium?” Eist asked, keeping his tone mildly curious.

“Everyone at the table, minus Triss,” Hille explained.

Eist glanced over at Triss in confusion.

“I’ll be with the queen,” Triss informed him.

“And where will the queen be?”

“Enjoying the best seat in the house,” Visindra piped up, with a grin.

“Which is?” Eist looked around, noting several shared smiles between the women.

“Somewhere the rest of us cannot go,” Visindra winked.

Well, _that_ sounded like a challenge. He pointed out, “Doesn’t sound very egalitarian.”

“We’re a monarchy, Mr. Tuirseach,” Visindra reminded him.

_Touché_ , he held out his hands in a gesture of defeat. She grinned.

Still, he pushed. “How do the optics look, on that? Not having the queen present, at the princess’ birthday parade?”

Pavetta merely grinned, obviously not upset. Visindra supplied, “She will be present. In her own way.”

“Trust me.” Pavetta shook her head slightly. “You don’t want to be where she’ll be.”

Eist couldn’t have imagined a less true statement. Still, he kept his mouth shut on that one.

After breakfast, everyone prepared to head out to the podium—which meant assembling in the reception area that led to the queen’s offices.

A black SUV pulled into the portico.

Visindra turned to Alcise with a slight look of confusion, “No open air.”

Eist instantly knew that vehicle was meant for the queen, who was supposed to only leave from the underground entrance to the palace, as part of security protocol.

Alcise flicked her eyes heavenwards, as if perhaps she’d already had the same argument with Calanthe (probably had, Eist mused).

There was a light shuffling noise, and Eist turned to see Triss, Danek, and Renfri coming, all focused on the double glass doors, which were currently opened, leading straight to the SUV.

And rounding the corner behind them, the Lioness herself.

Eist was instantly intrigued—she wore her usual attire of skirt and blouse, but her hair was in a sleek, tightly braided bun again. The kind of hairstyle she’d only worn for their weekend away, when she needed something that held relatively well against helmets and constant movement.

She didn’t even glance in his direction as she breezed past. It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

She reached out and squeezed Pavetta’s forearm, not stopping a beat.

“See you soon,” Pavetta grinned.

Her mother merely smiled. Then she was inside the vehicle, hidden behind a slamming door.

“She’s leaving the palace?” Eist turned to Visindra, who gave a small, single nod of confirmation. “With only two guards? Is that…safe?”

Visindra’s lips pressed into a thin line. Alcise smirked slightly at that.

“Mr. Tuirseach,” the countess drawled. “I assure you, the queen will be safer than any of us.”

“What, is she hiding away in some bunker?”

Alcise hummed at that. Her phone buzzed and she slid it out of her jacket pocket, reading the new message and tapping out a reply. Then, distractedly, she said, “No. Your concern is duly noted, but please understand that the queen can manage just fine.”

She looked up at that last line, and it seemed a bit pointed. Her dark eyes, so much like the queen’s, shot straight to his soul—she knew, he realized. She might not know the details of what had happened over the weekend, but she knew enough.

He simply stared back. He had nothing to hide, nothing to feel shame over. Though, if Alcise asked, he’d never confirm her suspicions. He’d made a promise to Calanthe, in an unspoken way, during their last walk together.

Several minutes later, three small golf carts appeared, ready to transport the group to the podium, which was several hundred yards closer to the street and the fence. Eist would have gladly walked the distance, but he supposed the women’s heels against the soft grass of the front lawn would make it a difficult journey for them.

They’d been at the podium, listening to people cheer for the princess and the start of the parade, for nearly half an hour when Alcise sidled up to him.

“Do you really wish to know where the queen is?” She asked quietly. She kept her gaze firmly fixed on the crowd ahead of them, her tone low and barely audible.

“Of course,” he returned simply.

“Then come.”

She led him across the lawn, to where the main drive looped back around, towards the currently-closed gates. A black car pulled up, and she opened the door, motioning for him to get in. He did, and she followed.

“Where are we going?” He asked, feeling slightly off-kilter. This was all so odd. He hadn’t even let Mousesack know that he was leaving. If this were any other situation, he’d be an absolute fool. He was as gullible as a kid being tempted into a stranger’s car with candy.

“To see the queen.” She offered simply. He understood that this would be all that she offered. He decided that regardless of the other details, the reward of seeing the queen again was worth the risk.

Despite the traffic and the street closures due to the parade, within half an hour they were entering a small air base and pulling into a large hangar, next to a row of sleek fighter jets, all ready to take part in the airshow.

Alcise slid out of the car wordlessly. Eist exited as well, eyes wide.

The jets were outside, but the pilots were still in the hangar, all fully dressed in their flight suits and helmets, standing in a small group and chatting as they waited. Alcise gently motioned for him to follow along, approaching the group.

Even in a jumpsuit, Eist recognized that ass. Still, he felt a flush of surprise when one pilot turned and Calanthe’s face was grinning at him, framed by her helmet.

Yes, it was surprise that made his heart skip like that. Just surprise. Nothing else.

“I hear you were complaining about the lack of equality within my administration,” she drawled, one corner of her mouth pulling higher and curling into a now-familiar lopsided grin.

So she’d truly sent for him, then, he realized. That sent another rush of delight through his veins.

“I don’t think I’d call it complaining,” he admitted.

“You wouldn’t, naturally,” she returned, amusedly.

He couldn’t help but grin. Still, for the sake of it, he said, “I was merely…making an observation.”

She hummed at that. Then, cocking her head to one side, she asked, “Care to observe from a closer range?”

He took a second to fully process what she was asking. She slowly arched her brow, awaiting an answer.

“Is that...allowed?” He asked carefully.

She smirked. “One of the best perks of being queen is that quite often, I get to do as I bloody well please.”

He raised his eyebrows at that.

“The jet's a two-seater but only needs one pilot, particularly for airshows,” Calanthe explained. She waited, simply watching him with a serene expression, hoping he felt certain enough to trust her, safe enough to go along with her idea (why she wanted that, why she almost _needed_ that, she didn’t rightly know—and she really didn’t want to delve into it, truth be told).

It was still a bad idea, she knew—even without Alcise's pissy little expression to remind her. But it was Alcise’s fault, in a way. If she hadn’t texted Triss about Mr. Tuirseach’s continued curiosity over Calanthe’s whereabouts, then Triss wouldn’t have told her, and Calanthe wouldn’t have had this idea.

Granted, she could have just told Alcise to explain the truth of the matter to him. But that wasn’t nearly as fun.

And truth be told, she wanted him to _see_ her. Wanted him to see her in full gear, ready to roll—she remembered the way he'd looked at her, the night they played capture the flag. She'd worn some of the finest dresses the continent had ever seen, over the course of her life—and yet no one had ever looked at her the way Eist had when she was in battle gear.

Did that make her current action any less reckless? No. Did she have any intention of pulling back, even as she acknowledged the recklessness? Also no.

_It’s fine_ , she told herself. She could allow herself one last little moment of weakness, one last little reach out to him. It was a half hour in a jet. It wasn’t as if things could get out of hand—and really, thirty minutes, what was that, in comparison to the rest of the day?

“Only if you want to, of course,” she added. Given his delighted expression, that was already answered. “But if you do want to, you'd better get suited up quickly.”

She motioned towards Triss, who'd already arranged for a flight suit and helmet.

He grinned and headed off.

She shouldn’t feel so ridiculously giddy right now. Like a kid on her birthday.

Renfri shifted beside her and she turned back to the younger woman, who was also in flight gear—that was how they'd met, years ago. Renfri had been a hotshot young fighter pilot, chosen to fly alongside the queen for another parade. They'd hit it off, and Calanthe had taken an interest in following the young woman's career. When Renfri finally committed one infraction too many and was on the verge of discharge from service, Calanthe had stepped in with a job offer.

It had been one of the best decisions of Calanthe’s life. Renfri hadn’t failed her yet. Never would, she knew.

“Ready, Shrike?” She used Renfri’s call sign.

“As always, Raven,” Renfri returned with Calanthe’s own. It was a custom of the Royal Wings pilots to take call signs in the form of birds or other winged creatures—besides, using her popular epithet of _Lioness_ was too great a security risk, according to her advisors at the time.

Calanthe winked and they headed out of the hangar. Several pilots were already climbing into their jets, preparing for takeoff.

A crewmember had just pushed over a set of steps for Calanthe’s jet when she heard Eist jogging up behind her.

She glanced up at him, unable to stop the smile at the sight of him in full gear, already grinning back at her. He looked like a kid, bright-eyed and eager.

“C’mere.” She reached up, switching on the headset for his helmet. Then she turned on her own and explained, “This channel is for in-jet communication only. I may sometimes switch over to the main channel to talk to ground control or the other pilots, but you’ll still be able to hear me—and be heard by the others—when I make the switch. I’ll give you a clear warning before: _moving on_ means group communication, _moving off_ means it’s just us two.”

He nodded quickly. She reached up again and clipped his oxygen mask into place, suddenly aware of just how close their bodies had to be, for such an action, and just how tall he was, just how bright his blue eyes were. She stepped back quickly, putting her own mask in place.

“Right now, we’re moving off,” she informed him, her own voice sounding odd through the helmet and the mask. Then she motioned to the stairs, which were already positioned to lead to the second seat. “After you, good sir.”

He grinned and climbed in without question. She followed suit, strapping into her seat. “Now seems like a good time to ask if you get motion sickness easily.”

His tone was filled with wry amusement, a little louder due to the headset, and slightly clipped due to the mask covering his face. “I’m a sailor, remember?”

She smirked at that. “Trust me, boat boy, this baby can make moves that your little ships couldn’t even dream of.”

The top of the jet slowly closed over them. The familiar spike of adrenaline rocketed through her veins.

“I can survive a rollercoaster,” he assured her. “I think I’ll be just fine. Tell me, shouldn’t you be wearing your glasses?”

“I have contacts in, thank you very much.” She rolled her eyes and slid her sun protection visor over the front of her helmet. Truthfully, she wore contacts most days, if her eyes weren’t too tired. But of course, he'd paid close enough attention to catch the few times that she hadn't. She waved at the crewmember as they pulled the stairs away. To the far left, the first jet was slowly taxiing towards the runway.

“And _you’re_ not gonna get motion sickness?” Eist’s tone was lined with curiosity.

She frowned at that, focusing on the switches across the panel, preparing the engines. “Why on earth would I get motion sickness?”

“On the helicopter ride. When it came time to land—you seemed ill.” He clarified.

Now she smiled. “Ah. No, that was more about trying not to give the pilot unsolicited advice for a smoother landing. It did feel a bit…unsettling, but I’m perfectly fine when I’m the one in control.”

He hummed warmly at that—she wasn’t sure that she was meant to hear it, to be honest. But with their headsets, the sound filled her ears and rippled over her skin with a warm shiver.

_This is literally the worst time to have those kinds of thoughts_ , she chided herself. Her body didn’t seem to heed the warning. She pressed her lips into a hard, thin line and focused on the jets pulling ahead of her.

“Moving on,” she warned, hitting the comm switch.

“Shrike, confirm,” came ground control.

“Shrike confirming,” Renfri’s voice filled her headset.

“Shrike cleared.”

“Clearance confirmed.” The jet next to Calanthe’s slowly moved forward. Calanthe waited for her own confirmation protocol before following after.

Once she was airborne and confirmed her flight pattern with both ground and her unit, she announced, “Moving off.”

Eist waited precisely half a second before being a reporter. “Do you still fly often?”

“You’d better hope so, for both our sakes.”

He chuckled at that. Then pressed, “Really, though. Do you participate in every aerial display?”

“As many as I can,” she admitted. “It’s one of the few chances I get to be up here, these days.”

“You flew in the war.”

She hummed in confirmation. “It was the easiest way to keep my exact level of involvement…a little less public. Besides, I've always liked flying.”

“It is lovely up here,” he said quietly.

They were approaching the palace. She warned, “Make sure that seat belt’s on tight, Mr. Tuirseach. We are going to show off, just a bit.”

“I’m eager to see what you can do, your highness.”

She fought back a grin as she drawled, “Moving on.”

It was time to focus on her work. Granted, she had even more motivation—a literal backseat audience, whose admiration seemed to be ridiculously important to her, for some reason.

Eist flexed his gloved hands and slowly pulled them back into a fist. It really was a bit like being on a rollercoaster. He had a general idea of what was coming, but it did nothing to quell the anticipation.

He couldn’t stop grinning as he listened to Calanthe, talking back and forth with her unit. Her voice was so different, in pilot mode. Quick and clipped and without any of the usual teasing or rasping or dry drawling to add shade and depth to her words. Even without seeing her face, he could picture the exact look of direct focus in her expression as she moved into formation, continuously checking all the dials and buttons and screens on her panel.

“Showtime,” Calanthe announced, pulling them up so abruptly that Eist practically slammed back against his seat. “Moving off.”

Her voice changed as she queried, “Alright back there?”

He began to laugh as they swerved sideways, arcing into a new formation. “Brilliant!”

And then he heard the most miraculous sound—a giggle, from the Lioness of Cintra.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Her tone was warm, almost conspiratorial.

“I’d pick a more emphatic and enthusiastic word, but sure,” he returned, adrenaline pounding through his veins as the jet righted again. She laughed softly in agreement.

“Moving on,” she announced, tone still wry with amusement.

They didn’t talk for the rest of the display—which felt like forever but probably lasted only a few minutes, Eist realized. He was more-than-slightly awed at how the jet dipped and rolled and zipped at ridiculous speeds, all while Calanthe communicated with her unit in an almost-bored tone, as if she were reading off a grocery list instead of performing aerial stunts.

Then the jet fully righted and turned back to the air base.

“Moving off.” She gave a slight, happy sigh. “Still good?”

“Beyond good,” he admitted. He’d adjusted to the sensations, after a bit. But his whole body was still thrumming with adrenaline and his head still spun a bit.

She went back on the main comm again and within minutes, they were touching back down on the tarmac so gently that Eist felt another wave of admiration for her skill.

Now he physically ached at the thought that he couldn’t publish the article he wanted to write. The one that told the world about the amazing woman sitting in front of him.

He was still feeling completely overwhelmed by the time they were both physically standing on the ground again—Calanthe was removing her helmet, grinning at him with a kind of smug delight that only made him want to laugh.

“Holy fuck, what a ride!” He felt another surge of adrenaline as reality fully hit. Something about being on the ground again made everything slam through his veins as quickly as they’d shot through the sky.

Again, she _giggled_. Now his head spun for an entirely different reason. She was practically glowing, brighter than the midday sun. Her face still had red lines from her oxygen mask, her eyes were dark and dancing, her cheeks were red, her hair was a mess from her helmet, and her smile was so open that it nearly blew him away.

For perhaps the very first time, he knew he was seeing her with absolutely no artifice, no attempts to filter or influence his interpretation.

He couldn’t stop staring into her eyes. They were watching him with such giddiness, as if his reaction was the best part of the whole thing. There was…an endearing hopefulness, as if she was trying to gauge just how much he’d truly enjoyed it. As if she was awaiting his approval, in some small way. As if this has somehow been a gift to him, and she wanted to make sure that he’d actually liked it.

It was soft and it was vulnerable and it was beyond his power to do anything but reward that hopeful expression with whatever it hoped for.

And with a lightning bolt of clarity, he realized that he was in love. Absolutely, utterly, irrefutably, irrevocably in love.

_Of course I am_ , he thought, realizing in a mild ripple of surprise that the revelation didn’t actually surprise him in the least. She ducked her head a bit, as if suddenly realizing just how unreserved she’d been. Still, she offered a smile and turned to walk back into the hangar. He took a beat to simply watch her. _How could I not be?_

It seemed perfectly natural. Perfectly expected, given how much he’d seen of her, given _what_ he’d seen of her.

He wished the world could see it, in a way. She’d never have to worry about death threats again, he thought. A couple million marriage proposals, but no more threats.

At the same time, he felt a supreme measure of pride and joy, knowing he was one of the select few who truly did get to see this much of her. He’d been…chosen, in a way. He rather liked the idea of it.

She never stopped moving, but she did turn, glancing back over her shoulder to look at him in askance. He merely ducked his head and hurried to catch up.

Eight days, he realized. Aside from the brief interview six months ago, he’d known her for a grand total of eight days. And he was already in love. It was laughable, preposterous—or at least it would be, if he didn’t feel it quite so deeply, with quite so much certainty.

Sibba’s voice echoed in his head: _Sometimes, when you know, you know._

He wasn’t sure how he knew, but gods above, did he know. All the way down to his bones, he knew.

* * *

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

Yennefer gave a strangled groan of irritation at the constant rapping on her door. She rolled off the couch, where she’d been napping, and shuffled over, not bothering to look through the peephole before whipping the door open and flatly demanding, “What?”

She wasn’t ready for the sight before her.

Tissaia de Vries, glaring up at her with absolute determination.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her former editor demanded.

“Ah. Lovely to see you, too,” Yennefer stood a little straighter, feeling an immediate surge of irritation through her veins.

She didn’t deny the unspoken accusation, Tissaia noted. Not that she’d expected her to. Yennefer played games, but she never denied playing them.

Tissaia waited for an answer. Yennefer merely watched her in curiosity, titling her head to one side.

“Do you wanna come in, or did you come here just to glare disapprovingly, like the good ol’ days?”

With a sigh, Tissaia breezed into the flat.

Out of ingrained habit, Tissaia scanned the entire flat. Not that there was much ground to cover, mind you—studio, small kitchen, smaller bathroom. A big closet that was still overflowing. A couch instead of a bed, though maybe it folded out. No knick-knacks or photos on the wall, no bookshelves. There was a small tv on the kitchen counter, positioned so that Yennefer could sit at the island and watch while eating.

Her go-bag was still thrown against the side of the couch, still stuffed from her last trip.

This place was a crash pad between assignments, nothing more, Tissaia noted. Typical Yennefer—never setting down roots, not even in her own home.

And she’d lived here for years, Tissaia knew. Yennefer still got the occasional residual check, for some of her old work at _The Post_. This had been the address on file for the last three years.

“I’d offer you something to drink, but that might give you the idea that I actually want you to stay any longer than absolutely necessary,” Yennefer deadpanned.

Tissaia brought her attention back to the younger woman.

“You look good,” she found herself saying, before she could truly consider the words. But they were true—Yennefer had always been attractive, but towards the end of her time at _The Post_ , she’d run herself ragged, and it had begun to show in the dark circles under her eyes and the sallow tint of her skin. She’d gotten some sun in Verden, and her skin looked fresher, brighter. “I mean—you seem…healthier.”

“I am.” Yennefer arched her brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s amazing how much easier it is to breathe, when you’re not trapped in a stressful work environment.”

Tissaia ducked her head at the barb, and Yennefer felt a flash of regret.

The older woman suddenly seemed…off-balance. Unsure of herself. Yennefer was immediately intrigued.

“I…I didn’t mean to….” Tissaia waved lightly towards the now-closed front door. With an almost-pained expression, she glanced back at Yennefer. “I figured you wouldn’t answer, if I tried to call. Or that you wouldn’t read it, if I sent an email.”

Yennefer gave a slight shrug of acquiescence, “Probably.”

“But you did…you were trying to get my attention, weren’t you?” Tissaia had been so certain of that, but now, standing here, it seemed like such an egotistical and preposterous assumption to make.

Yennefer looked up again, violet eyes wide with slight surprise. A beat passed. Finally, she said, “Yes. In a way. It was…more of a warning shot, across the bow.”

Terms of warfare. Tissaia ducked her head again. Appropriate euphemisms for their relationship, she supposed.

“What’s happened to you?” Yennefer’s voice was soft, almost aching.

Tissaia blinked, glancing up in confusion. She was surprised to see something akin to…concern, in the younger woman’s expression. “What do you mean?”

“This piece on the princess.” Yennefer motioned in the general direction of Cintra. “It’s propaganda, Tissaia. Don’t deny it.”

“I won’t deny that’s what it looks like,” Tissaia returned evenly.

Yennefer arched a brow. _Sometimes things are exactly what they look like._

For some reason, Tissaia smiled at her. Quietly, she mused, “For someone who spends their life telling other people’s stories, you rarely stop to listen, do you, Yennefer?”

It landed like a punch to the gut. Yennefer’s entire body tensed up.

Tissaia’s face contorted in a mixture of apprehension and regret. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“And yet it comes so naturally to you.”

“There are two of us in this room, Yennefer.”

“Yes, and only one of us _belongs_ here, Tissaia.” Somehow she made her name sound like a crime.

Tissaia pressed her lips together and physically bit the inside of her cheek to refrain from retorting. She’d been here less than five minutes and already things had devolved completely. This wasn’t the way to handle the situation, at all. Yennefer wasn’t one of her wayward reporters anymore—she was a potential source, and currently an uncooperative one.

“I’m sorry.” She ducked her head, softening her voice and her expression. “I don’t know what I ever did to make you mistrust me—”

“You know exactly what you did.” Yennefer stepped forward, brimming with righteous anger. Tissaia looked up at that, surprised at the vehemence in her response. “I had those men, dead to rights, and you blocked me—”

“I didn’t _block_ you—”

“You _refused_ to publish—”

“Until there was _further proof_.” Tissaia raised her voice, pushing into an authoritative tone that she generally didn’t have to use, these days. She felt a wave of helplessness, finding herself ramming up against the same brick wall, after all these years. “Yennefer, I don’t know how many ways I can explain—I never said no. I said _wait_.”

Yennefer stopped and blinked at that. Something shifted in her expression. Tissaia hoped against all odds that finally, it had sunk in. She could see the woman mentally retracing their final conversations, trying to remember the exact words they exchanged.

Quietly, she reiterated, “I never said no.”

Yennefer looked away, crossing her arms over her chest again. “You didn’t exactly support me, either.”

Tissaia let out a low sigh. She could give Yennefer that point. “No, I suppose I didn’t. I was…afraid, I guess.”

Now Yennefer looked back at her, eyes wide with confusion. “Afraid of what?”

Tissaia wanted to laugh at the naivete. All these years, and the woman still had no clue how the world really worked. How was that possible, after everything she’d seen and done?

Still, Yennefer was watching her, expecting an answer. Tissaia merely shrugged, “Afraid of…so many things, I suppose. Nothing that matters now.”

She wasn’t going to give any further clarification, Yennefer knew. So she switched gears.

“Speaking of things that matter.” She arched a brow. “Perhaps you can tell me why you rushed down here over a simple headline. Which part of my teaser frightened you so much that you came knocking on my door, after all this time?”

Tissaia took a deep breath. Here came the tricky part. “First, I would like to see what you have.”

Yennefer cocked her head to the side. “You _would like_ to see?”

“Please.”

Yennefer studied her for a moment, “Have you ever used that word before?”


	19. ::Excerpt from The Cintran Correspondent//Lions, Lambs, Shepherds Message Board::

** Excerpt from The Cintran Correspondent, online version: **

_Princess, Planes, and Parades, Oh My!_

The crowd cheers as the Royal Wings fly overhead [ _Photo by: Eglin Risse_ ]

Today marked the twenty-first birthday of Her Royal Highness Princess Pavetta, Duchess of Sodden. Crowds filled the streets of the capitol, warring between catching a glimpse of the princess, who watched the parade form the palace’s front lawn, and taking in the festive sights of the parade and airshow to celebrate the occasion.

Tomorrow, the city prepares for an even larger affair: the princess’ investiture as the crowned heir to the throne of Cintra, at the Temple of Modron.

* * *

** From the Lions, Lambs, Shepherds website, on the chat forum: **

_Original Post by shepherds-creed276_ : [photo link] So Duny’s there, but where is Mummy? Too frightened to step out in public, even for her darling daughter’s birthday?

_Comment by myusernamewasalreadytaken_ : THAT BITCH IS AN ABSOLUTE COWARD. NO SURPRISE HERE.

_Comment by shepherds-creed276:_ A coward, to be sure, but a smart one. She knows that if she ever showed up in public, the citizens would tear her to shreds. She was probably locked away in a panic room, hoping no one decided to storm the gates.

_Comment by shepherdmikaa:_ @shepherds-creed276 She won’t have that luxury tomorrow. She’ll have to be at the investiture.

_Comment by myusernamewasalreadytaken:_ SOMEONE SHOULD WAIT AT THE HIGH STEPS AND PUT THAT RABID BITCH OUT OF OUR MISERY.

_Comment by shepherdmikaa:_ @myusernamewasalreadytaken Do you really think her personal goon squad hasn’t already made sure that could never happen? You’ve got to be way more inventive than that to take out the lioness.


	20. A Slight Issue

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

Yennefer wasn’t one for capitulation. But she was one for giving enough ground to get something she wanted in return.

That was the only reason she acquiesced to Tissaia’s request, she told herself. Not because the woman looked at her with such an odd sense of almost-desperation. Not because somehow, after all this time, she still wanted her approval, in some way.

She removed the photos from the safe inside her closet. Handed the thick manila envelope over to Tissaia, who quickly opened it, eyes scanning over the first set of photos.

She covered her shock quickly, but not quickly enough—Yennefer instantly knew that she was on the right track with her story.

Quietly, she asked, “Well?”

Tissaia swallowed before answering, “What…exactly, do you think these pictures tell?”

Yennefer moved closer, brushing her shoulder against Tissaia’s as she leaned in to look at the photos again.

“It’s more of a matter of implication, I suppose,” she admitted quietly.

And truthfully, it was. The queen was leaving some embassy, and Geralt, a member of her personal guard at the time, had obviously pulled her aside to discuss something with her.

It was the body language that gave them away. How close they stood, hips angled comfortably towards each other. Geralt’s hand at her elbow, the queen’s hand on his bicep, their arms touching from wrist to elbow. The way the queen leaned in slightly, and Geralt seemed perfectly at-ease, having her so close in his personal space. The odd softness in his expression, as he looked down at her.

When she’d seen the photos, she’d known for sure what they meant—because she knew how physically distant Geralt Rivia tended to be—but now, Tissaia’s reaction confirmed it beyond all shadow of doubt.

Geralt and the queen had an affair, ages ago.

And Tissaia de Vries had already known about it, somehow.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Calanthe must have still been wearing her contacts, Eist realized. She wasn’t leaning away from the laptop as she scrolled through the photos, occasionally humming or looking up at Visindra in either amusement or askance.

There were a lot of photos to review, tonight. Four days’ worth, to be exact.

It was a bit mind-boggling, realizing how much had changed, since the last time they’d all sat in the queen’s office, recreating this same scene.

She’d been so curt and concise when Visindra had led them in, after dinner—the weekend and this morning’s adventure almost felt like a dream, a hallucination of sorts. The little bandage on her nose was his only confirmation that it had all been real.

He simply watched her as she clicked through the photos, dark eyes scanning each one with a clinical sense of curiosity.

She was beautiful. Of course, he’d long been aware of her attractiveness (he wasn’t blind, after all), but it had always been akin to the feeling of seeing a particularly breathtaking painting on display—he looked and enjoyed and admired, but the impulse to touch, the need to truly know it, was never present.

That was then. This was now. And this kind of attraction was different. He suddenly wanted to make her laugh, make her smile again. Wanted…to make her happy, in some small way. She deserved it.

His revelation from the morning came back in full force. He loved her.

He was going to have to say something.

There were a few photos that Visindra and the queen requested to be deleted, and Mousesack obliged. Then they went over the protocol for tomorrow’s investiture, which would definitely be the most official thing they would witness, aside from the wedding at the end of the week. Once that was done, Calanthe clasped her hands together atop her desk and met them both with an even stare.

“Thank you, gentlemen, and a pleasant evening to you both.”

The mask was firmly in place, Eist realized. It only strengthened his resolve.

“Your majesty.” He rose to his feet, along with Mousesack. “If you have a few moments to spare, I would like to discuss a detail of the article with you…privately.”

Visindra’s eyes blinked wide at that, and Calanthe shifted slightly, looking at the duchess over her shoulder. Then, with a shrug, the queen acquiesced. “As you wish, Mr. Tuirseach.”

Eist waited until the door was firmly closed behind Visindra and Mousesack before fully looking at the queen again.

She was as far back in her seat as she could manage, not quite shirking away, but certainly not leaning forward expectantly. She propped herself up on the arms of the chair, keeping her shoulders squared and her gaze direct but entirely flat and disengaged. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly, creating little creases.

He wanted to her kiss her, right on the little lines. To make them shift up to happier heights again.

Instead, he merely studied her for a beat, letting her settle in, letting her feel a little more at-ease. He wasn’t making sudden moves, wasn’t doing anything other than sitting across the desk, just as he had been before. He saw the tension in her shoulders ease, just a fraction, and some of the wariness slip from her dark eyes.

“There is…a slight issue,” he admitted quietly.

“Oh?” Her left brow lifted, ever so slightly.

“I have realized that…I cannot be entirely professional anymore.”

She blinked at that. He saw her shift, just barely. Saw the way the pulse at the corner of her jaw began to thrum. Her eyes and her pulse point, those were her tells. For someone who played the cool and calm routine quite well, her body’s actual ability to immediately launch into an adrenaline spike was remarkably quick and overwhelming, he thought.

“Not in my actions,” he assured her, holding up his hands gently, as if showing he meant no harm. Again, he saw the slight loosening of tension, and felt a wave of relief. He didn’t want her to feel wary or uncomfortable around him. “Just…in my bias, while writing. You see, I have realized that I am…quite charmed, by the subjects of my work.”

“Oh.” Her voice was low as she shifted again, sitting a little straighter—and maybe, just maybe, leaning in a fraction more. Then, with a slow blink, she brought her tone to a heavier, flatter pitch, “Please tell me that you are not referring to my daughter—”

“No, no.” He nearly leapt out of his seat in his desire to reassure her. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

 _I would have thought my feelings for you were obvious,_ he wanted to say. Still, she seemed to understand.

She dipped her head slightly. Her mouth twitched, but he couldn’t tell if she was trying not to smile or to frown. Her brows quirked downward as she lowly intoned, “So this…sense of charm you feel. It is…directed at me?”

The odd hesitancy in her words made him stop and blink. How could she even ask? Still, he answered, “Yes. Completely.”

She blushed. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. He looked for all her tells—her eyes were firmly away from him, almost directed at her lap, but the pulse in her neck was hammering wildly and her hands were gripping the arms of her chair for dear life. Again, he had no clue how to interpret those signs.

“Then I suppose it’s not really an issue at all, is it?” Her voice was assured and steady, completely at odds with her expression as she looked up at him again with an almost-desperate sheen to her eyes. “Seeing as you’re not writing about me at all.”

He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him, in this moment. Didn’t want to push too far to one side or the other, until he knew. So he leaned forward, just a little, keeping his voice low and reverent, “I know there are rules and limits. And I can honor that—I _am_ honoring that, and will gladly continue to do so…if that’s what you want.”

There. The cards were on the table, the ball was in her court. He’d do anything she asked, but she would have to ask it first.

“I do.” She blinked rapidly. She cleared her throat gently, then clarified: “Want that.”

Calanthe hated lying. But sometimes, it was necessary. She was doing it to save them all—Eist, herself, her daughter, so many others who’d be caught up in it if she let him slip further into her life, if she pulled back more of the curtain and opened more of herself up to this man whose entire life was devoted to showing the world the truth.

He merely nodded, and her heart clenched at how easily he gave her exactly what she asked for, even when it was so obviously not what he wanted to hear.

 _Why couldn’t you have been anyone else in the world?_ Her mind cried. _Why must you be this kind and this giving and this noble, and this untouchable?_

He leaned further forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at his hands. The angle reminded her of the afternoon in the desert, when he’d so tenderly tended her cut.

Thank the gods above there was an entire half-ton desk between them. Even now, she was still considering simply crawling over it and throwing herself into his lap.

“I can follow any rules you set,” he informed her gently. He looked up again, blue eyes searing into her soul. “But I can’t let this week end without letting you know.”

Her throat was impossibly dry and her lips felt tight and heavy. Still, she forced herself to rasp out, “Letting me know what?”

Her heart was pounding so heavily that she could feel each beat, all the way down to her toes.

“That…I have seen you. And I have seen someone who is good, and kind—in an odd and roundabout way, to be sure—and who loves her daughter beyond all belief, and who is…worthy of love.” His eyes were shining a bit now, and Calanthe’s chest was so tight that it physically hurt to breathe. “And…I wish that I could let the world see that, too.”

 _Worthy of love_. It had been hard to hear anything else he’d said beyond that. _Love_. He’d said it so softly, so…adoringly. There was no mistaking his meaning.

It wasn’t hard to recall the last time someone had touched her body. It wasn’t easy to remember the last time someone had touched her heart.

It was almost like looking at the sun, Eist thought. Painful to watch, blinding. Yet he couldn’t look away. Calanthe’s cheeks were simmering and her eyes were shining as she simply stared back at him, as if completely floored by his confession. But how could she be—surely she’d noticed the way he looked at her, after this weekend? Surely she’d known, in some way, that his feelings towards her were at least close to this?

But she looked at him in such soft wonder, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Well,” she said simply. Then she blinked, and the shimmering in her eyes disappeared. “I do…appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Tuirseach, but I do not need to have the world see me, or love me. I need merely to be able to provide the best possible start for my daughter’s reign—and to continue my own, in relative anonymity, as odd as the idea might seem.”

Her words were concise, but not cutting or cruel. Almost…regretful. She was still being respectful, he realized. He fully took in her expression again, and realized that now, the tables had turned. She looked upon him, as if _he_ were some wounded bird, in need of gentle care and a quick release back into his own world.

She… _pitied_ him, for feeling this way towards her. He was instantly curious as to why her response to a declaration of love—as veiled as it was, he had no doubt that she still understood—was to simply feel pity for its confessor.

She really didn’t agree, he realized. Regardless of what she may or may not feel towards him, she didn’t see herself the same way.

She may have actually begun to believe all the things she’d read about herself. The thought sent a pain through his chest. What he wouldn’t give, to be able to prove it all wrong—if only she’d let him.

But she’d made her decision, and he certainly wasn’t one to push against such things. Besides, he knew that it was never going to go beyond this week, whatever might have happened between them. It was best to nip it in the bud now. His head knew, even if his heart disagreed.

“I understand,” he said quietly, and he meant it.

She gave a small, stiff nod. He rose to his feet, preparing to give a bow. Her voice stopped him, “But—thank you, all the same.”

He stood up straight, watching the way she followed his face, her chin tilting further up to maintain eye contact as he rose to his full height.

“It’s quite…kind, of you. To say such things,” she said softly. She swallowed thickly. Her eyes were filling with that warm, melting look that he’d seen, that afternoon in the desert.

And he knew, without a doubt, that his feelings were entirely requited.

He wasn’t sure if it made things better, or worse.

* * *

Calanthe practically melted further into her seat once Eist Tuirseach left the room. Visindra appeared again, but Calanthe waved her off. “No, I’m done for the night.”

“Are you—”

“I’m done.”

Visindra took the hint, slowly slipping out the door again. Calanthe turned, letting her fingers lightly massage her tired eyes. They stung. From the long day, of course. Not because she wanted to cry.

Her whole body was shaking, like an addict on the wrong side of a fix. Her chest felt tight and heavy, filled with an odd sense of grief, while her hips were tight for an entirely different reason, humming and heating at the memory of Eist’s gaze, locked onto her with such ardent adoration. Nothing felt good, or right.

He was so dangerous. More than she’d ever realized.

She pressed her fingertips into her eyelids, hissing slightly at the pressure and the wave of frustration that coursed through her veins.

She’d been so stupid. So absolutely bloody fucking stupid. She’d told herself that everything was fine, that each little step wasn’t too far at all, that everything would be alright if she got just a little closer, had just one more little moment of weakness.

 _You never fucking learn,_ she chided herself. _All these years, and you never fucking learn_.

* * *

Hille pulled the comb through a section of Calanthe’s hair one last time before setting it aside and beginning to braid. The sky outside was barely turning grey, but as usual, their day had begun hours ago. The makeup artist had already been in, expertly covering the dark circles under Calanthes’ eyes and hiding the nick on her nose under a thick layer of concealer, and adding enough contouring to ensure that Calanthe’s facial features would stand out, even at a distance—events like these needed a professional touch.

Granted, they also could have hired a professional hair stylist, but Hille had been taking care of Calanthe’s hair for so long, she certainly could work it into something regal and elegant.

Besides, she was rather certain that Calanthe took comfort in having Hille do it. It felt a bit like old times. Hille and Alcise were Calanthe’s closest relatives on her father’s side, and as such, they’d spent much of their lives growing up together. There was an eleven-year age gap between them, and Hille had treated Calanthe like her own little doll, when she was a small child. Calanthe, having no siblings and a mother who was only affectionate in odd bouts and swings, reveled in the attention and adoration. She’d sit for hours, letting Hille style her hair or paint her impossibly tiny fingernails. Hille taught her how to ride horseback, one summer. And more often than not, Hille was the one tending to her scraped knees and bruised pride, whenever Calanthe fell out of a tree she was climbing or a wall she was attempting to balance across.

These days, she didn’t really get into physical scrapes (well, her current nose injury aside). But she still got wounded, from time to time.

She’d gotten into some kind of scrape yesterday, Hille could tell. Her energy this morning was entirely different than it had been yesterday morning, when Hille had seen her last. Hille had braided her hair in a tight, sleek style, in preparation for the air show—Calanthe had been excited, ready to get into the cockpit again.

Today she was lackluster, her face tired and slack. The makeup hid the dark circles, but it didn’t hide the sunkeness around her eyes. 

“Y’alright, kid?” Hille asked gently. She paused her braiding to fully make eye contact with Calanthe, through the mirror’s reflection.

Calanthe blinked slowly. “I’ll be fine.”

Hille pressed her lips together for a moment, weighing whether or not to pursue the subject. Finally, she ventured, “I know you will be fine, love. I’m asking if you _are_ fine, now.”

Calanthe hummed at that. Didn’t offer any further response.

Hille merely continued her braiding.

She could guess the source of her younger cousin’s moroseness. Mr. Tuirseach, no doubt—though Hille couldn’t actually imagine the man doing something to upset Calanthe. He thought she hung the moon, anyone with eyes could see that.

Maybe that was part of the problem. Or more likely, the problem was that Calanthe seemed to feel quite the same. She’d been getting a bit reckless, though Hille would never dare say so.

Alcise, naturally, had been the first one to worry. Ever an eye out for threats, her sister. Visindra hadn’t been worried until yesterday, when Calanthe decided to invite Mr. Tuirseach along for the flight, during the royal airshow. She was letting the man learn a secret, a secret that had been confined to a very small and set number of people for nearly two decades.

In the grand scheme of things, the secret itself wasn’t a big deal. It was the fact that Calanthe let it slip—the fact that once she started to let someone in, there would be more secrets to reveal. And some of those secrets were far more damning than flying in a parade. With consequences that were far more catastrophic.

Still, Hille trusted her queen. Calanthe had been good and careful for ages now. She knew the risks, better than anyone. It would take far more than a charming man with a pretty face to sway her resolve. She was just…having a bit of fun. No harm in that.

Gods knew she deserved it, Hille thought wryly. Especially after these last few months, with the death threats and the increased chatter in all those nasty little online groups that poor Alcise had to keep track of, every day. No, Hille couldn’t blame her at all for wanting a little distraction, even if it was just the fantasy of having a fling with the scruffy little Skelligen reporter.

She finished the final braid and took a moment to pat the tops of Calanthe’s shoulders, offering a small smile at her reflection. Calanthe smiled back as well, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Somehow, despite the heavy layer of makeup, the thickly kohled eyes and darkly painted lips, she looked so young.

It was like a window into the past. Little Callie’s face, when she was just five years old. Trying to be brave after she’d skinned her knee and Hille had bandaged it and added a small kiss to finish the job. Trying not to cry because it still hurt, even after all Hille’s care and affection.

Hille’s throat tightened as she shifted to one side, gingerly picking up the silver crown, inlaid with sapphires and outlined in white and black pearls. She focused on Calanthe’s reflection again, this time making sure the crown was set just-so atop her head, properly centered and balanced. She slowly began building the braids around it, into an intricate, twisting knot that slid down into a low chignon.

And just as she’d felt forty years ago, her heart ached at the realization that she couldn’t spare her dear little doll from the pain she felt. Couldn’t even truly lessen it, in the slightest.

She finally finished the hairstyle and stepped back to give it an appreciative once-over. As usual, Calanthe didn’t bother to look at it—she never really cared, and she trusted Hille’s judgement implicitly. Hille gave her shoulders another squeeze and forced herself to beam brightly at Calanthe again.

“Now, let’s go invest our girl.”

Unsurprisingly, the mention of Pavetta brought a genuine smile to her face.

* * *

Due to both security protocol and optics, Eist and Mousesack were not allowed to accompany the princess on her trek to the temple. Though they did wait in the front foyer with her, as her car came to pick her up.

“Alright there?” Eist asked quietly. She’d been standing stock-still, one hand over her stomach, jaw clenched tight and eyes glassily staring ahead. The queen, Visindra, Alcise, Hille, and Duny had already left. Triss stayed behind, Pavetta's one companion on her ride.

She blinked, twittering slightly. “Oh, yes, I suppose. Just…worried about tripping over the hem of this damned gown and making a fool of myself.”

Eist smiled slightly at that. It was a rather ostentatious gown. Fitted, but with a long train and a skirt made of several layers of diaphanous material, creating an effect of shifting colors and hues, all in various shades of gold and blue.

She also had a long cape, which thankfully wouldn’t be put on until she reached the temple. It seemed far too hot for so many heavy layers, and Eist was already concerned about her physical wellbeing.

“You will do wonderfully,” Mousesack assured her quietly, with a soft smile. The man had truly become quite taken with princess. But in a fatherly way, Eist had thankfully realized (Calanthe would murder the man, if she suspected anything else). He hadn't even complained about having to wear a three-piece suit and tie, for the occasion.

So much for unbiased reporting, he mused dryly. Eist realized that he, too, had become a bit enchanted by Pavetta’s serene charms. Though it was vastly different from the way he'd been charmed by her mother.

With a flash of pain, he remembered the night before. Calanthe’s expression, as he’d said goodnight. The sudden feeling that he’d somehow…hurt her, by confessing the truth.

It had been a bit selfish of him, he supposed. Needing to tell her of his feelings, in some way. He’d convinced himself that she needed to know, just as much as he’d needed her to know. But maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe she would have been better off in the dark. Regardless of how she felt, or even how much she’d already noticed about his own feelings, voicing them aloud had created a further issue. It had backed her into a corner, in a way, forcing her to not only acknowledge them, but respond to them. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought.

He hadn’t wanted that. Had never wanted that. He’d just…wanted her to know that she was seen. That she was loved. No expectations, no need for anything in return. But in doing so, he _had_ created an expectation of sorts—the expectation of a reply.

She’d given two replies, he suddenly realized. The one she had to give, as a queen who couldn’t possibly engage in an affair with a reporter who also happened to be the baby brother of her closest political ally. And the one she gave out of pure instinct—the nonverbal responses to his confession.

He ducked his head as his mind flashed with memories. The blush in her cheeks. The soft, rapid pulse just below her jaw. The flush rising from her collarbone. The wide, glittering darkness of her gaze. The flexing of her fingers, gripping, holding herself back.

How he wished that she hadn’t held herself back. She’d utterly destroy him, he knew, and yet he’d never wanted anything quite so keenly as this particular form of destruction.

 _She did what you could not_ , his inner voice pointed out. _She made the wiser choice, the better choice, for both of you._

Wiser, sure. Better, perhaps. But why did it still feel like it wasn’t the _right_ choice?

The car arrived, and Pavetta was immediately on-edge again. Eist reached out, offering his hand. She looked over, her face softening into a small smile of relief.

She took his hand. He gently helped her to the car, with further assistance from Triss, who gathered up the train of her gown and gently tucked it into the vehicle before walking around to the other side.

Pavetta was beaming at him, skirts still gathered into her lap as she sat. “Thank you, Mr. Tuirseach. See you soon.”

“See you soon,” he promised with a nod. Triss opened the opposite door, offering a small smile as she slid in. Eist closed the princess' door and lightly waved her on.

He turned back to see Mousesack, watching him with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

The photojournalist merely grinned. “You can be quite princely, when you want to.”

Eist rolled his eyes. “Let’s just go and get this over with.”

* * *

**The Temple of Modron, Cintra.**

The music resonated beautifully in the vaulted ceilings, all starkly white and filled with shafts of sunlight from the small panes of glass placed throughout the spires. Eist looked up again, feeling another small wash of wonder.

He wasn’t a religious sort. Never had been. But he’d never been less than awed at the various temples and shrines he’d visited, over the years. The sheer feat of architecture. The sense of history. The soft swirling energy, left behind by hundreds of years’ worth of human hopes and prayers, still drifting and echoing through the pillars, long after their originators turned to dust. Kings and queens and peasants and sinners and saints had all walked across these marble floors, kneeling before a great mother and placing so much of their lives and their hopes and their dreams and their losses and their griefs in her hands. There was something uniquely human about it all, something awe-inspiringly beautiful.

He and Mousesack were installed in the gallery, just to the right of the main altar, where the princess would kneel before the queen and accept both her crown and her official title as Ard Rhenawedd, High Princess of Cintra. Below, Duny sat on the front row, hands clasped together nervously, most likely overwhelmed at enduring this alone. On the flip side, this was also something that Pavetta had to endure alone—one of the last things, Eist realized. Once they were married, Duny would be at her side in all matters. Next time she was crowned, he would be, too.

There were four seats open next to Duny, obviously reserved for the queen’s ladies. Eist casually glanced around the large and crowded temple, wondering if he would recognize anyone. At the gallery across from them, he saw familiar faces from the Queen’s Council. In the rest of the rows below, in the main section of the temple, he saw other nobles and royals shifting in their seats. The thick walls of the temple and the volume of the music kept out the noise of the streets, but he knew there were still people cheering and chanting the princess’ name as they waited.

The music changed, and everyone shifted. The queen had arrived.

Eist’s entire body tightened at the sight. Even at a distance, her features were strikingly well-defined. Her dress was much like Pavetta’s—a fitted bodice with long, open sleeves that trailed to the floor and a loose skirt whose heavy fabric still outlined her hips as easily as her pencil skirts had, rippling layers of sheer whites and blues. Her shoulders were square and broad, thanks to a heavy, embroidered cloak that clasped with a large, ornate seal at her collar. It trailed the ground, beset with golden lions upon a cerulean field dotted with seed pearls sewn into small white flowers. Her silver crown gleamed like moonlight, sharp and cool, as she walked through the shafts of light. Her gloved hands held her scepter and her globe, the symbols of her rank. She kept her face as impassive as always, eyes fixed ahead.

Blue and white rippled and shifted with each step, and Eist was transfixed by the effect. She looked like the mythical Great Mother herself, descended from on high.

Mousesack took a photo. Eist knew it would be one that the queen would request to delete, later on.

The queen took her place at the altar, turning back to face the rest of the temple. Visindra was at her side, delicately taking the globe and setting it on a pedestal as Hille and Alcise arranged the train of her crown and cloak. Calanthe kept her scepter and waited. The ladies melted back into the shadows, quietly reappearing at the side of the room to slip into their seats.

Eist saw the slight rise of her shoulders—she was taking a long, slow breath to steel herself, he realized. Now he knew her well enough to know that her nervousness wasn’t for herself, but for her daughter. And not because she worried about how Pavetta’s performance would reflect badly upon her, but rather how Pavetta would so harshly judge herself for any potential missteps she might make.

This woman and her love, he thought softly. The world would fall at her feet, if they knew.

He clocked the exact instant that Calanthe saw her daughter—the tightening grip on her scepter, the brief flicker at the corner of her darkly painted lips, so quick that if you blinked, you’d miss it, the swelling of her chest in pride and adoration.

He looked further down the aisle, to where the princess, both an opposite and a complement to her mother in gold and blue, waited. Her own cloak was nearly twice as long, gold with blue lions embroidered upon it, with far more jewels sewn into it, swirls of sapphires and pearls, with a border of rubies along the hem.

A slight movement caught his eye, drawing his attention back towards the altar. Triss Merigold, slipping into the last open seat. Obviously she’d arranged Pavetta’s cloak and train before fading into the background again.

He turned his attention back to the queen. She still wore an almost-expressionless mask—but then, ever so slightly, she gave a small tilt of her head. A nod, almost. Her eyes were wide and locked onto her daughter’s face.

 _You can. You will. You must._ He remembered the words she gave, the day she waited with Pavetta outside the women’s committee luncheon. The way she’d stared determinedly into her daughter’s eyes, as if pushing strength straight into her bones.

Eist glanced back to Pavetta. The princess gave a small tilt of her head in return. Then, raising her chin once more, she moved forward in absolute assurance, even if it was absolute bravado.

Another love letter between a mother and her daughter, one he could never show the world.

He was absolutely going to write that second, never-to-be-published article. Technically, Calanthe had told him not to write about her—but he hadn’t actually agreed, or promised that, had he?

It was a trick, not a lie. There was a difference. And it wasn’t for anyone else’s eyes but the queen’s, anyways. A gift, nothing more.

Again, he quietly questioned what his expectations were for this gift and its reception. He looked to the queen again, beautiful and somber and austere, flawlessly divine. Still nothing compared to creature he’d met in the desert, or the one he’d seen yesterday morning, after the flight.

Maybe that was it. He wanted her to see that the mask wasn’t necessary. That who—and what—lay beneath was just as wonderful, if not even more so.

He would absolutely honor her wish. He would stay within the bounds of their roles and ranks. He would do the job that he was assigned to do. He would not hold any expectations, or hopes. And he would love her, all the same.

* * *

Once the crown was officially on Pavetta’s head, Calanthe felt a ripple of relief rush through her veins. Her daughter slowly looked up at her again, eyes shining.

She remembered those eyes, the first time they ever opened, looking up into her face with a startling sense of clarity for such a tiny thing, only a few minutes old. Remembered them looking up from her coloring, when she was maybe three or four, simply happy because her mother was sitting in the nursery, with her. Remembered them looking to her in search of solace and understanding, when told about her father’s death. Remembered the fear in them, when she quietly confessed that she’d been secretly seeing someone—a boy, a commoner, someone she now loved.

She fought back a wave of emotion and allowed herself the softest, smallest of smiles. It was safe—everyone else was so far away, they wouldn’t be able to see it. But Pavetta did, and that was all the mattered. It was only for her, anyways.

She allowed herself a moment of weakness. To let her fingers slip slightly from the crown, brushing lightly over her daughter’s cheekbones.

 _I love you,_ she let them say. Pavetta smiled in understanding. _My darling girl, I love you. More than you could possibly ever know. You are more than I ever could have imagined or hoped for, and I love you so._

Pavetta was shining. Perfect and golden and shining, just as she’d always been. And now everyone else could see it, too.

It was all Calanthe had ever wanted, for her daughter. An easier route than her own. A mother who actually showed up when it counted (at her own investiture, it had been Stregobor's grubby hands placing the crown on her head, her mother far too deep in her own grief to give a flying fuck about her daughter), who supported her, even when it hurt, who fought tooth and nail for her, so that she didn’t have to fight quite so much herself. A kingdom that was far more peaceful, with citizens who were far less critical.

One day, she’d be here, putting another crown on Pavetta’s head, if she were lucky. For now, she simply reveled in the joy of getting to turn to the world and proclaim: _This is my daughter. This brilliant, beautiful thing. Look upon her, and feel the joy she brings._

Despite the sting of it all, Calanthe could appreciate the irony of having her life’s greatest mistake be the source of her life’s greatest joy.

She gently took Pavetta’s hand, helping her rise to her feet again. She shifted, helping Pavetta turn to face the rest of the assembly.

She took a deep breath and spoke with the full force of her lungs, not even trying to hide the delight in her tone as she triumphantly announced, “I give you Pavetta Fiona Elen, Rose of the House Raven, Ard Rhenawedd, Duchess of Sodden, my crowned heir and future Queen of Cintra.”

The rafters boomed and echoed with applause and cheers. The heavy tolling of bells began, and from outside, a cry rang up.

Yes, the world adored her daughter, as they should. Pavetta would be safe from so many of the mistakes and mishaps Calanthe had suffered, reigning on her own, without a parent to guide her. The flush of victory flooded her veins, and it took every ounce of self-control not to grin like an absolute fool.

Instinctively, her eyes slid to her right, to the gallery—to one face in particular, one person she’d been so keenly aware of, the whole time. _Eist_. He was watching her with such rapt attention that she felt the flush of an entirely different emotion in her veins.

 _But this is who we are_ , she reminded herself. She was the queen atop the pedestal, on display yet hidden away in layers of custom and circumstance. He was simply a man, a momentary witness, a passing guest in the museum, merely admiring her through the glass, just like all the ones who came before.

She suddenly wanted to cry. And it wasn’t from joy.


	21. ::Excerpt from Fashion Forward Magazine Online//Lions, Lambs, Shepherds Message Board::

** From the Online Edition of Fashion Forward Magazine: **

_Pretty as a Princess: Cintra’s Newly Invested High Princess Pavetta Wows in Golden Gown._

Today marks the beginning of a fairytale week for Pavetta Fiona Elen, newly-crowned high princess of Cintra. And what a way to start! Her custom-designed Giltine gown awed the crowds as she ascended the High Steps at the Temple of Modron in Cintra City, showing off a beautifully detailed traditional cloak that has been worn by the last four invested princes and princesses—including her mother, Queen Calanthe. The cloak itself weighs an impressive thirty-five pounds, due to the length and the large number of sapphires, rubies, and pearls sewn in.

The princess’ beautiful blonde locks were styled in a traditional Cintran design, known as the bridal basket—a nice little nod to this week’s upcoming nuptials, perhaps?

[ _Photos courtesy of Eglin Risse, The Cintran Correspondent_ ]

_Click through the gallery to see more royal looks from the investiture: from hot to not, to oh no, same dress! >>_

* * *

** From the Lions, Lambs, Shepherds website, on the chat forum: **

_Original Post by lamb_no_more:_ One step closer, gang!!!

_Comment by shepherds-creed276:_ Still a long way to go….

_Comment by shepherdmikaa:_ @shepherds-creed276 Keep the faith.

_Comment by shepherds-creed276:_ Always. #theshepherdsmustprotecttheflock


	22. Little Callie Cottontail

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Alcise de Ruyter chewed her bottom lip, eyes wide and focused on the computer screen as her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The amount of chatter on the forum had decreased significantly, over the past few days.

It wasn’t a good sign. Things only went quiet when these types were close to some plot. Silence meant a fear of sharing too much, of a secret that needed to be kept.

Her screen name, _lamb_no_more_ , blinked in the comment box, ready for her to type out a reply. But she had nothing to go on. She couldn’t push it, couldn’t spook anyone by seeming too overeager.

This wasn’t her first time, playing this game. Pretending to be a young and newly-radicalized kid—it was the perfect excuse to ask questions without seeming too invasive. _lamb_no_more_ was a first year university student, who’d come here via a flyer in a pub. Interested in learning “the truth” about the corruption in Cintra and eager to help end it.

It had taken eight careful months to get invited into a private chat forum, only for elite members of the group and its website. A forum where concerned citizens ranted and raved against only one figure in government in particular—the queen.

This wasn’t her first time. But this was the first time in a very long time that she’d truly been worried, beyond her usual level of caution and concern. These people were well-organized. Meticulous in their wording. Several had the hallmarks of former military (gods, she _hoped_ they were former, and not still actively serving), which meant they had both the knowledge and skill to act—plus probably a far better connected set of contacts to gain any necessary supplies.

And despite all the raving, not a single one of them had said anything that could get them charged with a crime. (Ok, _myusernamewasalreadytaken_ had toed the line, several times, but he was obviously just a misogynistic piece of shit with no actual power to do fuck-all—she wasn’t going to her waste her time taking him down and potentially spooking the others, or worse yet, sending them underground).

A light knock on her open office door startled her. In the dimly lit doorway, her wife stood, clad in black silk pajamas and a long robe, which Alcise knew she’d only put on for her trek down into the offices of the queen and her ladies.

“It’s three a.m.” Visindra announced, a bit unnecessarily. Alcise felt the lateness of the hour, in her neck and shoulders, in her dry, tired eyes. She didn’t need a verbal reminder.

“I know.”

“At least bring your laptop upstairs.”

Alcise shook her head curtly at that. She had a rule. This stuff never entered their private spheres—neither their home, nor the chambers they currently occupied in the palace, for the time being.

“I’m not going back up until you do,” Visindra informed her, crossing her arms over her chest and settling against the doorframe.

Alcise motioned to the couch in her office. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable then, dearest.”

Visindra huffed at that.

The gesture pulled at Alcise’s tired shoulders, and she winced slightly. Her wife noticed immediately and moved across the office quickly, slipping behind her desk chair.

Alcise didn’t stop Visindra from massaging her shoulders, pressing her fingers deeper into the muscles at the back of her neck. But she did quietly command, “Just…don’t look at the screen.”

Again, Visindra huffed. “I’ve read awful things before, Cise.”

“I know,” she returned quietly. “But I’d prefer you not have to see the awful things I have to write, in turn.”

There was something small in her voice, something regretful and guilty. Visindra placed a hand on her wife’s forehead, holding her in place to plant a fierce kiss atop her head.

“Don’t,” she commanded. “Good work isn’t always pretty, but that doesn’t make it any less noble.”

Alcise hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing.

“Please come up to bed,” Visindra pleaded quietly. “Even rabid little pissants have to sleep sometimes.”

Alcise huffed in amusement.

“I was referring to the other people on the message boards, not you,” Visindra clarified, a bit dryly.

Now Alcise fully chuckled.

Visindra leaned forward, pressing further against her wife’s back as she gently closed the laptop. She kissed the shell of her ear and quietly whispered, “Bed, dear countess.”

Alcise closed her eyes and sighed in acquiescence. Visindra stepped back, hands on her hips.

“Do _try_ not to act as if being invited to your wife’s bed is as terrible as being ordered off to your own execution, de Ruyter.”

Alcise smiled tiredly at that. Visindra gently took her hand and helped her to her feet. She waited a beat, slowly stroking Alcise’s face before pulling her into an embrace.

“You can't run yourself ragged over this, love. _I’m_ the high-strung one, remember?” She murmured, tone tinged with teasing. Alcise hummed in agreement. Visindra held on, until she felt her wife relax, just a little. Then she stepped back, smiled, and led her upstairs.

* * *

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

_Round two_ , Tissaia thought with a sigh as she knocked on Yennefer’s door for the second day in a row. Yesterday, Yennefer had let her look at the photos—and had quickly launched into questioning Tissaia’s thoughts on the matter and exactly why she hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised by their implications.

Tissaia had shrugged it off, saying that it wouldn’t be so hard to fathom that a royal had an extramarital affair. Being unsurprised didn’t mean that she had concrete prior knowledge about a specific affair.

Yennefer had known she was lying. But she apparently had grown calmer in the years since they’d last seen each other—because she merely lifted her brows and looked away.

Tissaia had begged her not to publish the photos. Yennefer, unsurprisingly, had refused. _If you’re gonna paint a fairytale picture of the Cintran royal family, I have a responsibility to show the full truth of the matter._

Yennefer didn’t care about that, and Tissaia knew it. This was just another way to rake her over the coals for past sins, real and imagined.

But she held out hope. Because Yennefer had agreed to meet again today, after Tissaia had received a call from one of her current journalists, and had to return to her hotel to manage some issues.

It was a sign, she told herself. Yennefer could still be persuaded, reasoned with.

Everyone had a price. Tissaia had long learned the truth of the old adage. For some, it wasn’t about money at all. But there was always something worth trading.

She just had to figure out what the hell Yennefer truly wanted. She wasn't entirely sure Yennefer knew herself.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Calanthe was wincing her way through some early morning stretches and cursing the fact that forty-five-year-old bodies didn't heal as quickly as twenty-five-year-old ones when a quick rap sounded on the door to her private chambers.

It couldn’t be good news, this early in the day, she thought, quickly padding barefoot across the room.

Pavetta’s face was tight with anxiety.

“What is it, love?” She immediately reached for her daughter.

“Duny.” Pavetta grimaced. “He’s—he’s sick. There’s no way he can do the Children’s Hospital today.”

Pavetta had chosen her first public appearance as the Crowned Princess: a visit to the Cintran Children’s Hospital, to visit with the patients and announce the upcoming addition of a new wing, for housing long-term patients and their families in a more comfortable setting. Duny was supposed to accompany her.

“Alright,” Calanthe said quietly. She could see the unspoken question in Pavetta’s face—and the absolute terror at the thought of going on her own. “Would you…like me to go, in his stead?”

“I mean…can you?” Pavetta’s brows lifted in a mixture of concern and hope. “Will—can Alcise manage to—”

“Of course she can, she’s Alcise.” Calanthe brushed away the worries immediately. “Besides, no one really knows you’re going, other than the administrative staff. It’s a relatively low risk, security-wise.”

Pavetta’s expression melted into pure relief.

“Thank you,” she breathed, beaming at her mother.

“Of course." She patted her daughter’s cheek. “Now, off you pop. I need to rally my ladies and get everything in gear.”

Pavetta hurried off. Calanthe closed the door again with a sigh.

Alcise would certainly not be happy with this. Nor would Renfri. Or Visindra. Or…anyone.

But Pavetta had asked for her help. Calanthe couldn’t remember the last time her daughter had actually come running to her like that. Yes, of course, Calanthe still helped Pavetta in a myriad of ways—but usually without Pavetta’s knowledge, or without her asking, at least.

Calanthe had never been particularly good at asking for what she needed (or communicating in general at all, really). In turn, she’d tried to make sure that Pavetta never really ever had to ask, because she watched and anticipated and gave, sometimes before Pavetta even realized she needed something.

But when Pavetta _did_ ask, Calanthe tried like all hell to make it happen. And today was no exception.

* * *

Visindra answered her bedroom door with a positively dead-eyed look. When Calanthe informed her of the change in plans, however, she quickly woke up.

“Alcise—she’s going to need some time—”

“Renfri’s on it, too. We won’t leave for another three hours,” Calanthe explained. “It’s a simple visit. I daresay me and the security detail can hold our own against a gaggle of sickly eight-year-olds.”

Visindra was not amused by the queen’s inappropriate sense of humor.

“Pavetta needs me,” Calanthe softened, just a little. It was enough to win Visindra over, albeit with a sigh.

* * *

“Alright,” Renfri set her tablet down on Alcise’s desk, using two fingers to zoom in on a map of the Children’s Hospital. “We’ll be able to use the underground parking structure for our arrival—from there, we can use a private, key-card access-only elevator straight to the wing we’re visiting. I’m sending my guys ahead now to sweep and do security checks of the entire floor. We’ll post guards at the stairwells and ward entrance, so no one in or out, except authorized personnel.”

“And what about departure?” Alcise asked, scrubbing the heel of her hand across her tired eyes. Three hours of sleep had basically been a tease that left her feeling even more exhausted than before.

Renfri paused. Alcise knew it wasn’t because of good news.

“Visiting hours will have started, plus we’ll be leaving in the middle of a nursing shift change—which means we can’t secure the underground parking structure. We’ll have to use the eastern entrance, which was our original departure point, for the princess and Duny.”

“Photos?”

Renfri nodded, pulling the tablet back and tapping a few times to pull up another set of files. She pushed the tablet closer to Alcise again. “The building has a portico, as you can see, so partially covered. It’s about ten feet open air, to the curb, where the car will be position.”

Alcise hummed. “And we can get a fully enclosed tent in place, by the time they leave?”

“Hospital administration isn’t exactly keen on having it there all morning, but we will be allowed to set it up, about fifteen minutes before departure.”

“That’s tight.”

“We can make it work.” Renfri gave a curt nod of certitude.

Alcise trusted her. Still, she added, “And do you have ultimate protocols in place?”

“Of course. Always.”

Alcise waved her on. Renfri disappeared again.

Triss arrived, with a mug of coffee.

“Oh, thank the gods, Triss Merigold, I could kiss you.”

Triss laughed at that, handing over the mug. “How goes the security prep?”

“It boggles the mind how switching out a single royal for another can fuck up the entire day,” Alcise drawled. She took a tentative sip, testing the coffee’s temperature. “Become a queen’s lady they said. Spend your days in finery and frivolity, they said.”

Triss hummed. “May I tell the queen that all is in hand?”

“You can tell her to fuck off,” Alcise suggested with a smile.

The younger woman grinned at that. She left, obviously going to relay Alcise’s message in entirely more nuanced tones.

With a sigh, Alcise opened her laptop again and checked the chat forums.

Nothing new. It should be a relief. Somehow, it was not.

* * *

**The Children’s Hospital of Cintra, Cintra.**

Eist didn’t know whether to be delighted or dismayed at the last minute addition to their retinue—mainly because he didn’t know the queen’s feelings on the matter.

Last night, she’d been as concise and civil as always during the evening debrief. A bit pointedly, she’d avoided eye contact with him, but he supposed she had every reason to be wary. She’d removed the heavy makeup from the ceremony, and the cut on her nose had looked a little angry, as if it hadn’t really liked being unable to breathe under the foundation and concealer for so long.

Today, it was covered with makeup again. Only because of the public appearance, he knew. Still, it bothered him, knowing she wasn’t allowing herself to properly heal, even in the smallest of ways, all because of the need to look invincible to the public eye.

_Her nose—nor any other part of her or her life—isn’t any of your concern_ , he reminded himself, a bit regretfully. He leaned further against the wall in the hospital playroom, watching as the queen and the princess were introduced to a small collection of children and their families.

They’d already toured a few of the rooms, and Pavetta had listened attentively to the nurses explain certain protocols or procedures. She had her mother’s intellect, he knew—and it was on full display as she asked follow up questions and grasped new concepts with relative ease.

Pavetta was going to be a good queen, he thought, watching her crouch down to speak with one of the children. Her gentle smile soon coaxed a matching one from the little girl, and they began chatting about her stuffed zebra that she had in her lap.

Calanthe wasn’t smiling and chatting, but she wasn’t any less engaged. In fact, she was leaned over, squinting slightly at a tablet held by a young boy in a wheelchair, listening raptly as he explained something to her. She took him very seriously, and it was almost adorable—though Eist imagined that neither the queen nor the young boy would agree with such an assessment.

However, much like their first night at dinner, Calanthe soon slipped away from the group, after giving one last look in her daughter’s direction, assuring herself that Pavetta was fine on her own.

It was interesting, Eist noted. How she could blow into a room and command every ounce of attention—and yet, just as easily, fade into the background and disappear like a shadow.

She moved around the edge of the room, smiling softly at the sight of the children all raptly listening to Pavetta tell some story, heels clicking lightly over the linoleum floor as she slid up against the wall, just a few feet away from Eist.

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t seem uncomfortable, either—if she’d truly wanted to avoid him, she wouldn’t have come over at all, Eist realized. She was…testing the waters, as it were. Making sure that he was truly willing to hold to his promise.

He’d do anything, to make her feel at-ease. After all, the whole arrangement they’d come to, two nights ago, had been entirely for her—his only concern had been making things less awkward for her, less complicated for her. _For her, for her, for her_ , that seemed to be the heartbeat behind every decision he'd made recently, and it was both mystifying and a bit terrifying. He'd been infatuated before. He'd been attracted before. He'd never been quite this deeply devoted, this deeply selfless.

For her, he took the olive branch that was tentatively offered.

“She’s a natural at this,” Eist said softly, nodding towards Pavetta.

Calanthe hummed. “She’s always been good with children. She’ll make an excellent mother, some day.”

Now he grinned. “I’m just trying to imagine you as a grandmother.”

The queen huffed softly at that. “I’m afraid bedtime stories and baking cookies will not be my forte.”

“No, but when they get old enough for capture the flag and airplane rides…” He looked over at her, offering another grin. “Then you’ll get to be the really cool granny.”

She smirked, flicking her eyes heavenward in a half-hearted eye roll. “I’m sure I’ll be far too old, by the time they’re able to do such things.”

“You never know.” He shrugged.

She frowned, softly. “No. You never know.”

Then she shifted, standing a little straighter—Eist glanced over and realized that a little boy, who couldn’t have been a day over seven, was approaching her with a curious expression. The boy had been watching the queen since their arrival with that same exact quizzical look, Eist noted with amusement.

Calanthe neatly clasped her hands in front of her, awaiting her young subject’s approach.

He stopped, a bit closer than most people would consider socially comfortable. Stared straight up into her face.

Calanthe merely stared straight back down into his. Waiting. Eist couldn’t stop the grin sneaking across his face.

The queen slowly arched a brow. “Yes, good sir?”

“Why do they call you the lion?” He cocked his head to one side.

“Lioness,” she corrected easily. Eist could sense the almost-teasing in her tone as she prompted, “Don’t I look like one?”

He scrunched his face as he studied hers.

“No,” he decreed. Then with absolute certainty: “You look like a bunny rabbit.”

Her eyes blinked rapidly, and the corner of her mouth twittered and twitched. Her chest hitched up as if suppressing a surprised laugh.

Eist, however, did not suppress his own short, sharp laugh. She glanced over at him, her glare somewhat mitigated by the dancing amusement still in her eyes. With one last slow, burning arch of her brow, she returned her attention to the boy.

“Then I’m afraid I do not know why they call me that,” she admitted softly.

“It’s _your_ name,” he pointed out. “How can you not know where it comes from?”

“Where does your name come from?” She returned.

“My mother gave it to me.”

“Well, there you have it. My father gave the title Lioness to me.”

He took a beat to look at her, as if not fully convinced that she was being truthful. Again, Eist could see her restraining the urge to smile.

The other kids laughed at some part of Pavetta’s story, and the boy glanced back. Then, with one last look at the queen, he shifted back to join the group.

Calanthe crossed her arms over her chest and took half a step to the side, closer to Eist.

“A _bunny_ ,” she murmured, as if thoroughly insulted.

“It's probably the eyes,” he returned in a low tone.

“What's wrong with my eyes?” She turned those eyes towards him, brows lifting in mild shock and offense. They did look like a rabbit’s, he decided—big and dark, with long lashes. Innocent and sweet, in a way.

“Nothing.” He shrugged nonchalantly. Then, quietly, he added, “Except for their inability to see things at close range, apparently.”

She huffed softly at that.

“I assumed it was a dig at my teeth,” she admitted, after a small pause. “My mother's cousin used to call me Little Callie Cottontail, when I was a child. Gods, how I hated it. Hated _him_ , too.”

He glanced over at her, at the thin line of her lips, the furrow of her brow, the tightness of her arms crossed over her chest. She wasn’t being dramatic. She’d genuinely loathed that cousin.

Then the corner of her mouth hooked into a pleased grin as she continued, “Then one day, I bit him with my little bunny teeth. Right on the nose.”

He laughed, both delighted and somehow not too surprised.

“My father allowed me double dessert that night,” she remembered fondly. There was something indescribably warm and soft, in both her tone and her smile. The corners around her eyes tightened with joy.

“I would've too,” he admitted.

She looked over at him, something amused and almost playful in her eyes. “Yes, you would have, wouldn’t you?”

In that moment, Eist realized that they were perfectly alright. She was still teasing, still engaging. Just…now there was a definitive line, and it wouldn’t be crossed. Danced right up to, but never crossed.

She shouldn’t be pushing her luck, Calanthe thought. But she couldn’t help herself. Eist had been so oddly quiet and self-contained, the entire ride over to the hospital. So flat and unlike his usual self. She’d hated the thought that it was because of her. Because of what she’d done.

It wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen in love with her—or at least with the version of her that she’d allowed him to see. She’d realized that perhaps, their little moments of honesty had given him something that he hadn’t had in a while, either—a sense of intimacy, of acceptance not tinged by the glamour of their bloodlines or the mythos of their stories.

Yes, Eist had given up his claim to the crown—but he’d never been fully able to escape its touch. Calanthe was certain the plenty of women had seen his scruffy face and wild hair and had projected all sorts of fantasies onto this former prince, this brave and noble thing who wore his heart on his sleeve just as well as his delicious tattoos. And even if they weren’t swayed by his royal background, the allure of his correspondent career was equally enticing, to the right sort of woman. It had certainly been enticing enough for Ezondra Talke.

No, it wasn’t Eist’s fault at all—it was her own, for showing off, for pursuing his admiration so fiercely. Because she had. She’d wanted to be the kind of woman that made him look twice, almost from the moment she’d seen his photo, before they’d even met. And true to form, she’d set out to conquer completely, never thinking about the actual consequences.

But she’d been reminded of reality. She knew the line, and she wouldn’t cross it again.

That didn’t mean that she couldn’t… _be friendly_ with him, she told herself. In fact, she needed to ensure that they were still on good terms, considering that he had the power to help make or break Pavetta’s reputation, with this human-interest piece. She’d always needed to make him an ally, and nothing had changed that.

So yes. She could sit here and smile and chat with him—and yes, maybe it was slightly flirting, but she was that way with so many people, and rarely did she ever mean it. He’d been clear in his feelings, but he’d also not attempted to push past anything beyond expressing them.

He was an honorable man. She knew it, down to the marrow of her bones. Noble, even. He was safe.

She was not honorable, or noble. But she was disciplined and principled, in her own twisted way—and she knew, more than anything, that he deserved to remain honorable and noble. She’d save him from himself.

It wasn’t just him who needed saving, in this scenario, she reminded herself. As usual nothing was ever simple in her life. Not a single decision was without grander implications and connections.

A slight noise on her right drew her attention, and she glanced over to see Hille.

“Security has everything ready for our departure,” she whispered. It had been a mad scramble, getting everything as close to protocol as possible (Alcise had been a right-awful grump all morning, though Calanthe couldn’t blame her, with only a few hours of sleep).

Calanthe merely nodded, glad that it was almost over. Hille lightly motioned, catching Pavetta’s eye and signaling for her to wrap things up. The princess disengaged with a few more smiles and well-wishes before rejoining the group.

Once they were in the hallway, Renfri sidled up to the queen, “Everything’s in place and ready for departure, your majesty.”

Calanthe hummed in acknowledgement as they all slipped into the elevator.

Eist noted the queen’s light wave of unease, as they approached the large, glass-plated entrance, with its brightly painted children’s handprints all over the walls.

Renfri pushed her long legs to move further ahead, motioning to another member of the team to step in front of Calanthe, creating a human shield. Eist didn’t recognize the guy—granted, he only knew Renfri and Danek by name, but he hadn’t seen this one before today. Though today’s security included a mix of agents from the queen’s personal team and the team assigned to Pavetta and Duny. Renfri’s face scrunched in concern as she approached the group of security personnel who were already assembled outside, leading the way to the black SUV.

Eist could see why—there wasn’t a tent, as had been expected. Calanthe had obviously noticed as well—her shoulders were still high and tight, as they had been from the moment she’d walked out of the elevator and spotted the issue.

Still, she kept moving. It wasn’t that great of a distance, Eist realized. She could be out the door and in the car in ten seconds, tops.

He moved a bit closer to Calanthe, hoping to ease her slight anxiety with distraction, “Do you really not know how you got your nickname?”

She glanced back at him with a wryly amused arch of her brows. “I know _everything_ , Mr. Tuirseach.”

He rolled his eyes at her obviously theatrical smugness. “So you just lied to a child for the fun of it?”

The glass doors opened again.

Eist heard Renfri questioning a member of the security detail, “Where’s the tent? Why isn’t there—”

Then the world slowed.

Calanthe turned back to him, grinning widely at his snark with her adorable bunny teeth, opening her mouth for some wry retort. The guard in front of her slowly and purposefully stepped to one side, leaving her wide open. And over Calanthe’s shoulder, Eist saw the steady, focused movement of a man coming straight across the hospital drive, gun already raised directly at her.

His heart shattered like glass. All he could see were her big, dark eyes, watching him with such innocent, unsuspecting joy.

She truly did look like a sweet, helpless rabbit, he thought numbly, every fiber of his being screaming to protect her.

He reached for her. The world exploded.

* * *

Calanthe saw the sudden shift in Eist’s expression. Her throat went dry. She didn’t have time to react—he was grabbing her elbow, pulling her to the ground as chaos erupted.

_Gunshots. Glass shattering, raining down on them. Eist hovering over her, pulling her head into his chest._

**_Pavetta_ ** _—a thought, no, a scream, nearly ripping her lungs from her chest._

_Pushing against Eist, clawing her way back up, his arm still tight against her waist as she launches forward, wildly scanning the area, looking for that familiar blonde head. Baby, baby, where’s my baby…._

_Men rushing. Renfri rushing towards her. Yelling, yelling but no words, no sense, no sounds._

**_Pavetta_ ** _. Find her find her where is she find her—_

**_DOWN_ ** _. Renfri is making sense again, dragging her back to the ground with Eist's help._

_They’re trying to kill her. She needs to find Pavetta and they’re trying to kill her. Renfri dragging her further back, back inside._

_Burning screaming pain in her knee. Eist's voice in her ear. **She’s safe she’s safe just move—**_

_Blue eyes. Impossibly blue. She trusts them. Ducks her head when he put his hand over it, crawls across concrete and glass, grits her teeth through searing pain and keeps pushing._

_Renfri, Renfri, where did she go?_

_More gunshots. Eist pulling her into him again, all around her, a shield. She holds on tight._

**_Pavetta_** _, she begs again._

**_Safe_ ** _, he whispers back. Or maybe it’s a yell. Everything is so loud and yet so muted. He's so close, she can feel his heartbeat against her forehead, his cologne mixed with the scent of absolute fear. His arm is tight around her, almost too tight to breathe but it feels right, feels good, feels safe._

_She holds on tight. **Safe**._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I did. See ya Friday. <3


	23. Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...only one chapter this update because it is a honking long one. But Sunday will have more, I promise!

_Get away from the open glass._ That was Eist’s only thought. His fingers were digging into Calanthe’s upper arm, still dragging both of them further inside, towards the corner of the corridor. She seemed to understand his intention, because she started moving faster in that direction as well, sliding across the waxed floor and pulling him around the corner with her.

Her eyes were wide, wild, darting around in pure panic.

“Pavetta!” She yelled again, still searching.

“She was behind us,” he reminded her. That was the one thing he’d seen. “Danek took her and Hille back inside. They’re safe.”

Mousesack had been with them. Eist could feel his cellphone buzzing in his pocket. He dug it out, unsurprised to see Mousesack’s name on the caller ID.

“We’re safe,” he answered, not entirely sure of the truth on that. “Calanthe and I, we’re safe.”

“Good. I’m with Hille and the princess. We’re unharmed.”

“Pavetta.” Calanthe reached for the phone, having obviously overheard.

“Put the princess on,” Eist instructed.

“Pavetta,” Calanthe practically shrieked into the phone. Eist could hear Pavetta crying. “I’m alright, I’m—no, stay with Danek. Go wherever he tells you. I’ll see you soon.”

Renfri skidded around the corner, falling to her knees.

“We have to move. Now.”

She was wrenching the queen onto her feet. Eist grabbed the cellphone and told Mousesack they were on the move before hanging up. Calanthe stumbled, hobbled by her heels, but he caught her. She slipped out of her shoes and Eist crouched down to grab them.

Calanthe took her heels and glanced towards the entrance. “The shooter—”

Renfri was digging in her pockets, pulling out a set of keys. She looked directly into Calanthe’s eyes. “Hochebuz protocol.”

Eist had no clue what that meant, but Calanthe became stone-faced, so it couldn’t be a good thing. She took the keys and nodded. Renfri grabbed her arm and began to bolt.

Calanthe turned, reaching back to pull Eist’s shirt, dragging him along.

Renfri looked back, face lined with concern, but Calanthe said, “He’s safe. And he stays with me.”

Renfri didn’t argue. She simply charged ahead, as best she could. She was limping badly.

Calanthe reached for her. “You’re hurt—”

“I’ll be fine,” Renfri kept moving. Her face was pale and she was already sweating, Eist noted. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Calanthe didn’t argue, but she gave Eist one last glance over her shoulder, making sure that he was still following. He quickly matched their speed, moving through a winding maze of corridors and staff-only doors.

They came out a side door that led to a small alley filled with hazmat bins.

Now Renfri stopped. She took Calanthe by the shoulders and maintained eye contact as she quickly spoke, “Tarisk and Canal. Black. 2VB.”

“You’re bleeding.” There was something small and pained in Calanthe’s voice.

“I’m alright,” Renfri assured her. “Just…get out. Now.”

“Pavetta—”

“I’m going back to her now. Danek has her secured.” Renfri looked at her again.

“Tarisk and Canal. Black. 2VB.” Calanthe repeated.

Renfri nodded. Then she bolted back inside.

Calanthe tucked her shoes under her arm and grabbed Eist’s wrist, pulling him forward.

“What the fuck are we doing?” He asked, immediately concerned as she moved across the concrete in nothing but her stockings.

“Getting out of here.” Calanthe returned simply.

“Your feet—”

“Will survive. Keeping moving.”

They reached the street and Calanthe glanced both ways, as if gathering her bearings. Then she moved towards the southeastern end of the sidewalk.

Eist noted the street signs at the intersection: Tarisk and Canal. A black sports car whose plates ended in 2VB was parked at the corner. Its lights blinked and the trunk popped open when Calanthe hit the key fob that Renfri had given her.

“I need you to drive.” She handed the keys over to him. Her hands were shaking as she grabbed a small black duffel out of the trunk and slammed it shut again.

“What, where?” His mind was still reeling, but his body obeyed, moving towards the driver’s side.

She opened the passenger door. “I don’t know yet.”

She threw her heels in the back seat and dug out a pair of flat heeled motorcycle boots, quickly zipping them up as Eist got in and turned the engine. He wisely chose to drive away from the hospital.

Calanthe was moving like a woman possessed, her entire body shaking with adrenaline as she rummaged through the bag. She pulled out a small black cellphone and immediately dialed.

She put it on speaker and set it in the cupholder.

“Are you safe?” Alcise’s voice came on the line.

“Yes,” Calanthe answered, sparing a look at Eist. She whipped off her suit jacket and tossed it in the back seat as well. She pulled out a set of sunglasses from the bag and put them on. Then she removed the matching necklace and earring set she was wearing, stuffing them in the bag.

“Pavetta is en route back to the palace, with Danek, Hille, and Mr. Moussek.” Alcise continued. “Renfri is staying to manage the situation on the ground—”

“What the hell happened?” Calanthe demanded. She began removing the pins in her hair, unleashing a series of braids, which were also quickly undone.

“I…don’t know yet.” Alcise was ashamed; it was evident in every ounce of her tone.

Calanthe finished unbraiding the final section of hair, running her fingers through the roots and dislodging a few more bits of glass and debris. She didn’t need a mirror to know that she looked entirely different than her usual self—or at least the one that the world was used to seeing. No one would recognize her, at first glance. She felt a little safer.

Eist kept his focus on the road, slowly taking them further and further away from the hospital. They stopped at a red light and he looked over, eyes softly widening at the transformation.

“Right now, no one else is coming back in,” Alcise informed her. “We’re going full Hochebuz.”

Calanthe nodded curtly. “I’ll check back in half an hour.”

The line went dead.

Calanthe gave a quick sigh. “We can’t go back to the palace yet.”

“Why not?” Eist asked, a ripple of anxiety shooting down his spine. He needed her to be safe—more than anything, he wanted her home, safe, with Pavetta.

“Just—I’ll explain—everything, I promise, but for now, we need to find a place to lay low for a few hours.” She glanced around, as if perhaps something would magically appear.

“I’ve got just the place,” Eist realized.

She looked over at him.

“I rented a flat, for this assignment,” he explained. “And I never actually cancelled the lease, after Triss brought me to the palace.”

Now her expression melted into relief. With a wry grin, she drawled, “Eist Tuirseach, you might prove yourself useful yet.”

He huffed in wry amusement at that. He took a moment to gain his bearings, then steered the car in the right direction.

Police units and big, ominously unmarked SUVs blared past, heading towards the hospital.

“Holy fucking hell,” Calanthe murmured. “Alcise is never gonna let me live this down.”

Then, suddenly, she glanced over at Eist. “Are you—did you get hurt?”

“Some glass in my hands, I think but other than that, I’m alright,” he shrugged. He took a beat to look over at her. “You?”

“Same. My knee’s been sliced to hell, but I think I’m OK.”

He glanced down at the knee in question. It was a sizeable gash. Or at least it seemed that way—there was a lot of blood, trailing all the way down to her ankle. “We’ll have a look, once we get to the flat.”

She nodded.

“What’s Hochebuz?”

She sighed. Took a beat. Then answered. “During the war, my plane went down. Technical malfunction, it seemed. I ejected over Hochebuz. A rescue team came to get me. Except it wasn’t a rescue team. It was a group of ex-military mercenaries who’d been hired to assassinate me. Come to find out, they’d sabotaged the plane and intercepted my distress signal so that they could get to me before my real rescue team could. I escaped and was MIA for four days, until I could get back to base.”

He blinked hard, trying to process it all.

“That wasn’t the first or the last time that we’ve faced an assassination attempt,” she explained calmly. “Alcise is…extremely prepared, for any possible outcome. Hochebuz protocol is a set of actions we take, in case there was ever internal sabotage, or any other situation that left me uncertain of whom to trust.”

“So…what is our next set of actions?” He asked, unsure of what else to say. He felt a slight blush of pride at the unspoken compliment—in a situation which warranted not trusting her own security personnel, she’d claimed that he was safe, with absolute conviction. He’d do everything within his power to live up to her confidence.

“We hole up. I check in every half-hour or so with Alcise. She’s our only point of contact until we go back in. That means your phone goes off and you do not contact Mr. Moussek or anyone else. Renfri and Alcise will manage the situation. The press, no doubt, will get wind of this. The official line is that we’re all back safe and sound, and the threat has been neutralized.”

“But has it really?”

She sighed at that. “We’ll find out in half an hour.”

Eist’s stomach twisted with dread. He thought back to the moment it all started. Quietly, he said, “I…I saw it, Calanthe. The guard standing in front of you. He stepped out of the way. He stopped shielding you—it seemed intentional.”

“Fuck.” She grabbed the phone again, hitting the redial button. This time, she didn’t put it on speaker. Alcise must have answered, because she simply said, “Laern. He apparently moved out of the way, opening me up for the shot.”

There was a slight pause, the low cadence of Alcise’s voice.

Then Calanthe spoke again, her tone softening, “Eist pulled me out of the way, just in time.”

He gripped the steering wheel at the thought—if he’d been only slightly more distracted, how differently would this have ended?

His palms stung as glass fragments dug further in, under the pressure of his grip.

He nearly melted in relief, seeing the entrance to his rental flat’s parking garage up ahead. They pulled in and he quickly keyed in the code for the gate.

Everything, thankfully, was based on key codes. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen this particular rental—he was notorious for losing physical keys. Numbers, on the other hand, he could retain in his memory for ages.

They got out of the car. Over the top of the roof, she gave him a small, tired smile. He immediately wanted her back in his arms, back where he could feel that she was truly safe.

She slung the black duffel over her shoulder as she moved closer, ducking her head slightly. He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, guiding her forward. She seemed to understand; she didn’t shy away. He realized that maybe, she needed the reassurance a bit, too. In the elevator, she shifted, just barely, just a bit, turning further in towards him.

He didn’t let her go until they were walking through the front door of the flat.

Once they were inside, she dropped the bag and slipped her sunglasses off. “Fuck, it’s dark in here.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. Sibba had made the exact same complaint, when she’d seen the place during their video chat a week ago ( _a week, how had it only been a week?_ ). He locked the door and headed straight to the bathroom, to grab the first aid kit.

When he came back, Calanthe was gingerly rinsing her hands in the kitchen sink, grimacing at the sting. She looked up. “Got some tweezers in there?”

“Here’s hoping,” he announced. He popped the kit open and thankfully found a set of tweezers, which he held up for inpsection.

She took them in her right hand and then held out her left expectantly. “C’mon then. Let’s see.”

He looked at her in absolute bewilderment. “No, you should—”

“Eist.” She stopped him with a look. “You literally, _actually_ saved my life. I think the least I can do is remove a few bits of glass from your hands.”

She had a point, he supposed.

He stepped closer and held out his hand. She took it gingerly, angling it so that it was directly under the beam of the overhead lights. She squinted slightly before beginning.

He couldn’t help himself. “Shouldn’t you be wearing glasses for this?”

“Contacts, arsehole,” she reminded him, a bit too distracted to sound truly irritated. With a slight sight, she took a beat to flick her hair over her shoulder again—it kept slipping forward, blocking the light.

He’d been academically curious about her hair, before—it had been interesting, seeing how she used it to make political statements, or how it indicated her schedule or agenda for the day. But he hadn’t actually thought of it beyond that context.

It was longer than he’d expected it to be. Almost down to her waist. And not just a solid, single shade. There were brushes of almost-copper towards the ends. Currently it was in waves due to the braiding, and a bit wild due to her efforts to look nothing like her usual self.

Still, somehow, she looked exactly as she should, he thought. Just a touch softer, a little less controlled. It was a good look for her.

He tried not to wince as the tweezers pinched.

“Necessary pain,” she reminded him softly, in what he assumed was her unique way of apologizing.

She dropped a shard in the kitchen sink before returning her attention to his palm. Her tone was low, half-distracted as she added, “Luckily for you, it seems most of the glass didn’t stay embedded.”

“Luckily,” he echoed.

She hummed. “Not the best choice of words, I’ll grant you.”

“No, I still consider myself quite lucky, given the circumstances.”

She lifted her eyebrows, as if acquiescing the point.

“Keep an eye on the clock, would you?” She murmured. “I need to make sure I check in with Alcise on-time.”

He nodded. She couldn’t actually see the nod, but somehow, he knew that she was aware of it.

By the time she finished both of his hands, it was time to check in. Thankfully, Eist didn’t actually need bandages, and he returned the favor by beginning to work on Calanthe’s free hand as her other held the phone.

The call ended, this time with Calanthe promising to check back in an hour.

She relayed the details to Eist. “It seems we’ve reached a bit of an impasse, for the time being. Your suspicions about Laern might be true, but we don’t know for sure.”

“He’s not talking?” Eist guessed.

“You could say that. He’s dead.”

Eist stopped, looking up into her face.

Her lips were pressed into a tight line. “The second round of gunshots—the shooter took out Laern, and then himself. It seems that he knew at that point he’d failed, and he was…taking preventative measures.”

Eist’s stomach turned to stone. Those kinds of preventative measures usually indicated a larger plot or organization at play.

Obviously, Calanthe was thinking the same thing. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she looked away.

“They just _had_ to pull this stunt, the week of Pavetta’s wedding.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” He felt a ripple of incredulity. “You nearly died, and you’re upset because it casts a shadow over a wedding?”

She looked back at him. “I’ve nearly died plenty of times. Pavetta’s only getting married once.”

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she added, a bit more gently. “Besides, I didn’t _nearly die_ at all. You were there, to save me.”

Somehow, she made it sound…almost playful. Coy, teasing. He took a beat to merely look into her eyes, feeling a bit trapped by the softness.

“Thank you, by the way,” she added. With a droll smile, she nodded towards her hand. “We seem to be making a habit of this—me getting injured through my own brash decisions, you cleaning up the damage.”

She was trying to deflect again. He gave a small smile. “I don’t mind. I’m just…glad I’m here to help.”

Her expression melted into something warm and relieved.

“Me, too,” she said. Then she ducked her head and avoided his gaze, concentrating on her own hand as if it were the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. A light blush crept across her cheeks.

Yes, all those things he’d confessed to her, two nights ago in her office—she felt them, too. He knew beyond all doubt.

Still, she’d made her choice, and he would respect it. He returned his own focus to her hand again, removing the last bits of glass. Then he nodded towards her knee, “We’ve definitely got to get that taken care of.”

She hummed in soft agreement, glancing down. The bleeding had stopped, but it was certainly a mess.

Eist looked around, and she realized what he was doing—she needed to be seated, for this one. She simply shifted to the side, placing her still-tender hands on the kitchen counter and hauling herself up to sit.

Her hose were completely shredded, from the glass and concrete. “Hang on.”

She removed her boots, letting them clunk to the floor. Then shimmied slightly on the counter as she pulled up the hem of her skirt.

Eist glanced away, noble as ever. She huffed, “It’s fine, you won’t see anything indecent.”

Still, he was a bit cautious as he looked over again. However, she saw him grin slightly at the sight of garters.

“How, exactly, were you expecting your day to go, when you got dressed this morning?” He teased lightly.

She rolled her eyes. “I _always_ wear these, thank you very much. You try running around all day in full hose and tight skirts. Your thighs would look like ground meat from all the chafing.”

Her thighs, currently, looked spectacular. He tried not to focus on them as her hands unclipped the garter straps for her left leg.

He suspected she’d wear these, even if chafing wasn’t an issue. It was slightly dramatic and entirely in-line with her personality.

She gingerly began rolling down the stocking. She gave a slight hiss when she got to her knee, where it was a bit embedded in the cut.

“May I?” He moved closer, desperate to help in some way. The look of uneasy pain on her face was making him wince in sympathy.

“Oh, um…sure.” She eased her leg back down a bit, letting go of the stocking. He grabbed a cloth from the kitchen drawer and wet it in the sink.

“This is gonna help, I promise.” He held it up, still waiting for her to actually acquiescence. She merely nodded, holding back another hiss as the water made contact with the cut. He held it there for a beat, then gently set it aside. With absolute focus, he began gingerly rolling the stocking down again.

He was right, it did help. The water had removed some of the dried blood that had caked the stocking to her skin. Once it was past her knee, it slid off easily enough. He dropped it onto the floor and placed his hand on the back of her calf, delicately raising her knee to a better angle as he took the cloth and cleaned up the blood, some of which had run all the way down to her ankle.

Her body should not be reacting the way it currently was. Slow, steady heat pulled through her hips, her chest tightening as he drew the cloth up, completely concentrated on his task. His obliviousness only seemed to make it worse, she realized. If he could do this without even trying, what could he do to her, with direct intention?

Calanthe had always been almost clinically curious, in regards to sex and attraction. Once she found herself attracted to someone, most of her thoughts were focused on what the actual moment would look like. How the dynamics would play out, what she’d learn in the process. And usually, once the moment was over, her attraction also ebbed—curiosity sated, just as easily as her physical needs. Sometimes she returned, out of convenience and the guarantee of a good time, but the overwhelming desire and fascination wasn’t there.

That was why she was like this, she told herself. She felt attracted to the man, naturally, and moments like this brought out so many questions and musings. If she just…leaned in and answered all those questions, she’d know and be content.

Right now, she was far from content. Eist was leaning in slightly, squinting at the injury, looking for any bits of glass or debris. She watched him gently remove something from the cut and barely felt the small ripple of pain from the contact—all of her nerve endings seemed to be focused on the warm weight of his hand on her calf, her skin practically screaming for it to keep slipping up, to the back of her thigh.

She thought again of that afternoon in the desert. The regrets she still held, even though she’d tried time and again to convince herself that she’d been smart, she’d done the right thing by not giving in to impulse.

This was more than just a small tumble in a jeep, though. This was death, stared right in the face, and then some. She’d ejected from a plane mid-flight and had been on the run for her life, back in Hochebuz—but it paled in comparison to the terror she’d felt today, being caught in the crossfire and knowing Pavetta was somewhere nearby, possibly hurt ( _or worse_ —even now, her throat tightened and her chest contracted at the mere thought).

She had far less strength left, far less willpower now. They were completely alone and as far removed from her life as possible. And Eist was even kinder, even gentler, even more appealing than he’d ever been before.

She thought of the attack. Feeling his heartbeat as he held her. The certainty of him, of the safety she felt. Thought of how it would feel, recreating that physical closeness in an entirely different setting.

He’d forgive her, for a momentary lapse in judgment. He’d understand. After all, one didn’t almost die every day.

Still, she held back. Flexed her fingertips into the kitchen counter. Told herself no. Watched him with hungry eyes and let him be soft and sweet as he tended her knee.

Calanthe had gone very still, and very quiet. Eist assumed it was an attempt to bottle the pain brought on by his poking and prodding into her cut. He willed himself not to look up, knowing he’d be distraught by the sight of her face, wincing from his own touch.

He made sure there was nothing left in the cut, then patted it down with an antiseptic wipe, trying to ignore the sensation of her calf muscle flexing in his hand at the contact. Still, he wanted to cry with relief. Having some part of her in his grasp was more comfort than he’d expected. It was the same instinct that had kept his arm around her shoulders, the entire journey from the car to the front door—the need to physically reassure himself that she was here. Weighted and solid and alive, blessedly alive. He let his hand linger for just a moment, slowly withdrawing so that he could use both hands to apply the bandage.

Only then did he allow himself to look at her face again. He nearly fell over in shock—her eyes were so dark and so wide, and so unmistakable in their wanting. She wasn’t a lioness. She was a wolf.

Her hand gently reached up, lightly grasping the front of his shirt. She waited, as if testing his reaction. He shifted forward, just enough to be noticeable, and waited.

She tugged him forward slowly, watching him in rapt fascination. He gladly followed her lead, shifting closer as her knees opened wider and she slid further to the edge of the countertop. Her other hand came up, slipping around to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair. Those dark eyes slid down to his mouth, tinged with an odd mixture of desire and hesitation.

He was afraid to actually touch her. She was practically shaking, her whole body humming with an odd energy, breath coming in shallow, quick drags from her open mouth—the slightest thing could shatter her, he thought, and yet, she was still somehow the most powerful thing he’d ever seen.

She leaned forward and rose up slightly, lips ghosting so close to his, but not actually touching. He closed his eyes and waited.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, fully trembling now. “I know I shouldn’t.”

He didn’t have time to reassure her—because chaos erupted.

Her fingers tightened their grip in his hair, and her other hand mimicked the movement with his shirt, pulling him further in. His lips met teeth, then her lips, her tongue pushing into his mouth with surprising force. He felt her knees tightening around his hips, ankles locking behind him, keeping him further in place as she pulled herself closer, further against him.

Now, he lost of his fear of touching her—mainly because he had no choice but to hang on for dear life. His hands instinctively grabbed her hips and she gave a small needy sound at the contact, the noise pushing straight into his lungs. He pulled her closer and truly returned the kiss, head spinning at the fluttering sounds his actions inspired. Both of her hands were in his hair now, pulling him back slightly and holding him in place as she continued kissing him as if her life depended on it.

_I’m sorry_ , her words echoed in his head, heartbroken and ashamed. Who could ever think they needed to apologize for this?

He let his fingers flex deeper into the softness of her hips, and she rolled further into him in response.

Oddly enough, it was his push forward that made her pull back.

Because she'd come to a realization, over the past twenty-four hours: her desire not to pursue anything didn’t come from concern over her own position, but rather his.

She’d read everything he'd ever published, by now. Even in printed black and white, she’d felt the conviction of his words and the strength of his character. She didn’t consider it an exaggeration, calling him noble. He had ethics and morals and she was destroying them, destroying _him_ , by allowing this to continue.

There was nothing ethical about a journalist having a fling with the subject of his work. He'd already confessed to bias, and while originally Calanthe had rather planned on gaining his favor specifically to influence things in her own favor, she now recoiled at the idea of making him compromise his morals.

_They’re what I love about you,_ she thought, shocking herself with the silent confession. How could she forever destroy the part she loved, just for a few minutes of something for which she lusted?

_You have to stop this_ , her mind commanded.

Her body took a few moments to truly obey. Though it wasn’t entirely her own fault—Eist's tongue was slipping past her teeth and it was impossible for her body to do anything besides short-circuit at the electric sensation.

His hands were moving, sliding up the small of her back. She could feel all the strength he was holding back, all the ways he kept his touch tender, all the consideration he gave, following her lead even now.

_He'd wreck himself, for you._

That thought finally goaded her into action.

She tightened her hands in his hair, holding him back and pulling herself away, too. He gave a breathless almost-growl in response and she couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped from her lungs in reply.

_Please don’t hate me_ , she prayed.

She opened her mouth, but he spoke first, voice low and shaking, “Don’t you dare apologize.”

She opened her eyes. His were still closed.

“Don’t you dare,” he repeated.

Her throat was too tight with tears to say anything at all. She simply nuzzled her nose against his, letting her fingertips gently stroke the back of his neck.

_You beautiful thing,_ she thought _. I’d never forgive myself for breaking you. You terrifying, sweet thing_.

She didn’t apologize. Still, she breathed, “I…I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have dragged you along, back at the hospital, and I shouldn’t have…done that.”

Now he opened his eyes, and her heart broke at the pain radiating back at her. He shifted back slightly, so that he could properly focus on her face.

“ _Dragged_ me?” His expression filled with confusion. “Did you honestly think there was _ever_ any other option than me staying by your side, no matter what?”

She flushed at that. Slowly, she withdrew her hands from his hair, letting them slip down to rest on his chest. She uncrossed her ankles, widened her knees to free him.

His hands moved away from her body, resting on the counter, still caging in her hips. “And as for _doing that_ —you didn’t do a damn thing that I didn’t want. Not a single moment of that was something I haven’t already spent a lot of time wishing for.”

Another rush of heat flooded her cheeks. She felt a bit dizzy, hearing the lower timber in his voice, the way it dragged, heavy with want.

“I’m here because I want to be,” he informed her softly. He dipped his head forward and she couldn’t stop herself from countering, shifting closer again, hands balling into fists, gripping his shirt.

_Here_ wasn’t just a physical state of being, she understood. Her eyes pricked with heat ( _dammit, you will not cry in front of him...and you will not let this continue_ ).

“You can’t stay here,” she returned regretfully. “I…can’t let you stay here.”

She forced herself to look up at him again. He was watching her with a mixture of curiosity and compassionate concern. She let go of his shirt, brought her hands back to her lap.

“You’re a good man, Eist Tuirseach,” she decreed. Then, with a thick swallow, she added, “But this is not good. This is not…noble. This is not who you are.”

He blinked at that. Stepped back and gave a soft exhale, as if she’d punched him, square in the chest.

_Look what you’ve done,_ her inner voice hissed. _You went too far, waited too long, and you’ve done the one thing you didn’t want to happen—you’ve already wrecked him, in some small way. Don’t look away—that hurt in his eyes is your doing, don’t hide from it now._

She gingerly began to slide forward, off the edge of the counter. He stepped further back, allowing her space. She grabbed her boots off the floor—she wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she knew that she had to put physical distance between them.

However, he held his hand up lightly, not actually touching her, not actually stopping her.

“Can you." His voice was quiet, almost aching. He took a breath, then continued, “Can you, just this once, trust me enough to simply say how you actually feel about all this?”

She stopped and blinked up at him.

He was watching her keenly, expression so earnest that it nearly stopped her heart entirely. “You have given very good, very valid reasons for holding back. And I can respect those reasons—but I need to know that you _actually_ believe them.”

She hesitated.

_I don’t like lying_. Eist recalled her declaration, from the night they played capture the flag. She looked up at him with those big brown eyes and he saw the same thought screaming through them again. _Don’t make me lie._

“The thing is,” he spoke again, his voice lined with tenderness, desperate not to upset her or push too far, yet equally desperate for one simple, straight answer on the matter. “You seem to be holding back out of some noble need to protect me—and I don’t need protecting, Calanthe.”

_Oh, but you do._ Her heart retorted. Still, Calanthe found that she couldn’t quite move, couldn’t quite put the much-needed distance between them.

She was still looking at him like he was a wounded bird, Eist realized. He felt a wave of irritation. Her concern was patronizing, now. She’d called him good and noble, and her eyes had taken on a sheen when she’d said it. He wasn’t sure how or when it had happened, this shift in how she saw him, but he recognized the look, well enough. Gods above, he’d recognized it in Ezondra Talke, with her starry eyes and her breathless smile.

Oddly enough, he didn’t want Calanthe to look at him like that. He wanted her to see him, _truly_ see him—just as he’d come to truly see her.

He put a little edge into his tone, keeping his gaze locked onto hers. “I don’t know what made you decide that you had to shield me, but I didn’t ask for it. And I certainly don’t want it.”

“What do you want?” She retorted, a little breathlessly. She’d lost the soft concerned look, and now watched him with guarded curiosity.

_Everything we had two minutes ago, and more,_ he inwardly responded without hesitation. But perhaps it was best not to be quite so direct.

Still, he could be utterly honest as he replied, “I want you to make a decision—any decision—that is genuinely based on what you want for yourself. Not on what you _think_ you should want, or what you want for me, or anyone else.”

She blinked at that, obviously surprised.

Quietly, he added, “And…I want you to trust me.”

Now her expressive eyes welled up with hurt.

“I do trust you,” she said simply.

He took a beat to look at her, making sure she understood. “I want you to trust that I can make my own decisions, about who I am and what is good or right for me. I want you to remember that I am perfectly capable of weighing the consequences and risks of the situation, too. That I can be trusted to make my own choices.”

Eist watched as his words fully sank in. He saw the flicker of recognition in her expression—she was almost…chagrined.

“I do trust you,” she repeated, in a whisper.

She wanted to prove it. Wanted to give him something, anything, everything he asked for, when he looked at her like that. All he wanted was her honesty ( _not all_ , she knew, she could see the flush in his face and the way his pupils were still dilated, she knew he wanted more than just words, but for now, he wanted honesty above all).

That was a novel realization. This man stood here, so willing and wanting—and yet, more than anything, he just wanted to know her. Not in a physical sense, but in an emotional one.

For three decades, she’d been subjected to various forms and attempts at seduction and romance. No one had tried this approach before. She had to admit—it was thoroughly effective. She fell to its charms.

She took an uneasy breath, and looked away, looked for the words. “I just...don’t trust myself. Not around you. I keep…crossing the line. I can’t seem to restrain myself around you. And it terrifies me.”

Those last three words were a rasping whisper, and Eist felt a pang of sympathy amidst the heat her confession produced (oh, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg her— _don’t restrain yourself, don’t do anything but unleash chaos upon me, upon us, upon it all_ ).

A beat passed. She didn’t offer any further explanation, didn’t meet his gaze anymore. She truly did look terrified, and he hated it.

“So,” he ventured softly. “What do you _want_?”

Her lips trembled. “I want to do the right thing.”

She slipped away like a shadow, moving towards the door.

He felt his heart fall to the floor and shatter.

It was getting harder to breathe, Calanthe realized. The further she moved away from him, the worse it got.

_Keep moving, Calanthe Fiona Riannon,_ her inner voice commanded. _You will walk to that door and you will not take a single step back. You will do the right thing, for both of you._

The right thing. This was the right thing. Why was her chest screaming with pain, then?

“Does this feel like the right thing?” He called after her, practically speaking her own thoughts.

She stopped. Closed her eyes. Took a deep breath.

He continued, his gentle tone carrying easily through the stock-still flat, “Because it seems like you’re making choices because you _think_ they’re right, not because you _feel_ they are.”

She’d learned a long time ago not to trust feeling over logic. She wasn’t sure how he’d survived this world for so long, believing otherwise.

“Please.” His voice was lined with aching, and she had to close her eyes against it. “Just tell me how you feel. Just…tell me.”

He wasn’t asking for action, for commitment. He was asking for a simple acknowledgement. He just wanted to know that this thing between them was mutual, that he hadn’t pushed too far or too hard. And more than anything, she wanted to reassure him—because he was good and he was kind and he was soft, and he’d been more considerate of her than so many had been before, and that deserved to be met with equal consideration.

She slowly turned back to face him. She let her masks and filters drop, let herself simply look at him, without hiding all the things she felt.

_I feel like the world’s on fire and all I want is to be wrapped up in your arms again,_ she thought. _I feel like I’ve been burned before I even had a chance to enjoy the warmth, and it’s not fair. I feel like I want to swallow the moon. I feel like running away, but only if you’re going to come find me anyways. I feel aching and angry and it’s all because you’re too much, too soft and too wonderful and too untouchable, and I just want to feel you._

She’d never say such things aloud, even if she could. It was both maudlin and somehow not an ounce over-exaggerated, completely true.

He was still waiting, watching her with a renewed sense of curiosity. He’d fully read her expression, now that the mask was off. Even at a distance, she could see the way his eyes darkened in response.

A wave of emotion surged through her lungs, tightening her throat.

_Just…tell me_. She could give him this. She blinked, tried to breathe, forced herself to speak. “I feel…overwhelmed.”

There. Absolute truth.

He waited. She took another breath (it was getting easier to breathe again, this was good) and added, “I feel like I can’t be trusted to make the right decision based on what feels right, because I want…I want too much.”

_You. I want you too much._ That’s what she couldn’t quite bring herself to confess, and yet, he understood it all the same.

When you want too much, you clutch too tightly. When you clutch too tightly, things shatter. A fact of life, pure and simple.

“Too much can be…damaging,” she offered.

His expression melted into something soft and almost-pained. He took a single, small step forward, and quietly asked, “Is that what you’re protecting me from? Too much?”

Gods above, this woman was breaking his heart in a new way every five seconds. _Who made you this way?_ He wanted to scream. _Who told you that you were somehow defective? Who lied so cruelly to you?_

His hands tightened into fists at the absolute conviction in her face, the terror she held for her own depths. He'd spent a week, seeing the way she loved. He couldn’t imagine what kind of absolute idiot would look at that and not what to dive in, heart first.

“You’re absolved,” he said simply. She blinked in confusion and he clarified, “It’s not your responsibility anymore. I have been informed of the risks, and I am accepting full responsibility for whatever may come.”

Oh. Calanthe had not considered this option. She’d been so focused on saving him that she hadn’t considered that he might possibly not want to be saved.

“You can’t save people from their own decisions,” he reminded her. “Isn’t that what you said, our very first night at dinner?”

Dammit. Of course he'd use her own words against her.

“And,” she breathed, her chest tightening with a growing sense of inevitability. “Didn’t you argue decisions are made without full forethought—or without true understanding what is being lost, and that we should...mitigate their impact? _”_

He blinked at that. Then offered, “Alright. What do you feel needs to be considered, beforehand?”

He was looking at her with such earnestness, so desperate to help. How could she not give him everything he wanted, when he looked at her like that?

Fighting against the tightness in her throat, she filled her lungs and pushed herself to speak. “It’s just—there are entanglements. More so than usual.”

“We’ve agreed that you’re not the subject of my work,” he reminded her gently.

“Right. But it still seems…quite close.”

His brows lifted slightly at that. And then, with all the smugness of knowing he was about to land a point, he said, “It’s beginning to sound like you’re coddling me.”

Heavens above, he was _teasing_ her. She was trying to be open and honest and he was using _that_ tone, with _that_ boyish, lopsided smile—how the hell was she supposed to do anything but melt?

_This._ She thought. _This is what I’m afraid of. I don’t even have you yet and I’m already terrified of losing you, losing the way you look at me, losing the parts of you that make you who you are_.

But that wasn’t her responsibility anymore, she reminded herself. She’d stepped back, she’d tried to stop this, she’d offered every explanation and warning that she could.

_Trust me_. That was all he’d truly asked, throughout it all. He never grew frustrated at her concerns. Never did anything but graciously accept whatever terms she set.

It was because of this, that she did trust him. He was intelligent and principled and more than capable of handling himself (hadn’t he so thoroughly proven that, today especially?).

She wanted this. He wanted this. They were adults, perfectly capable of handling the situation. Yes, she’d convinced herself somehow that she loved him, but there was still a good chance that after the adrenaline died down, she’d find her curiosity sated and all the confusion completely gone. And if it did break her heart, what then? It was her own fault and either way, she was going to be hurt. Might as well get something good out of it.

You can’t save people from their own decisions.

Still, she knew that certain lines had to be drawn, beforehand.

“If,” her voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to shatter the entire room. “If I want to leave…how would things change, between us?”

Eist’s head was spinning. He seemed to be on a pendulum, swinging wildly between hope and despair, one second to the next. His chest burned with a dull ache at the thought that she might only have stayed this long because she feared retribution if she didn’t.

He shifted, truly considering the question. With absolute conviction, he answered, “Nothing would change. I would still respect you, and your decision. I’d still write the story, to the best of my ability. And I wouldn’t let my personal feelings affect our professional relationship. And my feelings…they wouldn’t be anything more or less than they were before.”

_I can’t stop loving you_ , he wanted to say. _I don’t know how it even happened, but I know I can’t change it. Even now, you’re breaking my heart and I can’t help but love you for trying to be so damned noble, even if it’s misguided as hell._

She nodded. She kept her eyes focused on him.

Quietly, she asked. “And…if I want to stay?”

Damn his idiotic heart for fluttering. Somehow, he kept his tone even and neutral. “Nothing would change. Everything I mentioned before would still apply. If that’s what you want.”

He felt the need to add a third option, “And you can stay and just…stay. We don’t have to…continue this.”

Again, she nodded. A heavy beat passed.

“I want to stay,” she admitted. “I want to continue. But I also…want to know that…this is just a moment, for both us. That there will be no…leftover emotions, afterwards.”

He couldn’t guarantee that. Still, he sensed that her main concern was having those leftover emotions spill over into their lives and roles outside this flat. And that, he could guarantee against. Again, he assured her, “For everything outside this moment, nothing changes.”

Oh, this was history repeating, she knew it. Promises made, when everyone involved knew they were going to get broken.

But she’d been utterly honest, before—she couldn’t seem to stop herself around him, and now this moment, as improbable as it had been, seemed utterly inevitable. She _wanted_ it to be inevitable. She wanted it, wanted _him_ , wanted to let herself have this, have him, just for a little while.

They’d earned this, she thought. Hadn't they paid enough for this?

_I tried,_ she reminded herself. _I tried. I tried to move out of the way, I tried to outrun this._

Her father's voice echoed quietly in her ear, one of the very last lessons he ever taught her: _Know when it's time to stop moving._

Somehow, Eist almost heard a final pin dropping into place. He saw the slight shift in her shoulders, the sudden tension leaving her entire body in a single, long exhale.

She simply watched him for a beat, eyes wide enough to swallow the whole world.

“Nothing changes.” She repeated. “Promise?”

This time, his heart shattered in the best of ways. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooooo....this next update/chapter will be rated E.  
> I have some readers who just don't do that sort of thing, so if you're a smut-skipper, just pm me on tumblr (@marvellouslymadmim) and I will give you a breakdown of the important plot points you missed, because I definitely do porn with plot.


	24. Just a Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. This chapter is Rated E.
> 
> It's also basically 19 pages long. I would apologize for the length...but I'm not sorry, so...

This was fine, Calanthe convinced herself. She’d gotten caught up in this little obsession, she’d tricked herself into thinking that it was something more—she just needed to get this out of her system, and she’d be absolutely fine again.

Yes, that’s why she was doing this. That’s why her heart was racing, blood humming with heat and lightning as she watched the shift in Eist’s expression, watched the full weight of reality settle into his limbs.

_No going back now_ , she told herself. For the first time, he was truly looking at her without tempering his feelings—his eyes were dark and wanting and tinged with a slight touch of awe, as if she’d just arrived, as if she were some kind of grand gift from the heavens.

She took a step back physically, but a leap forward emotionally—she lightly tossed the boots in her hand to the side and let herself lean against the closed door, simply watching him, simply waiting, knowing full well he’d answer the unvoiced call.

It was like the afternoon they’d played cards, Eist thought. When he took her hand and things devolved into an odd, honey-slow burn ( _then_ , _there_ , _that_ was the moment that there was no going back for them, he realized suddenly). She was both hunter and prey, watching him with a sort of coiled-muscle anticipation—if he got close enough, she’d absolutely pounce.

Naturally, he moved closer.

Calanthe felt her entire body tighten, the moment he took a step forward. The feeling only intensified as he kept moving, watching her with such careful fascination. She knew she was practically hyperventilating by the time Eist reached her, but she couldn’t control her lungs any more than she could control any other part of herself, around this man.

She splayed her hands against the door behind her, shifting as he came to stand in front of her. She had to lock her knees to keep them from trembling. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this deliciously overwhelmed and he hadn’t even touched her.

_Were you really trying to save him from too much—or were you trying to save yourself?_ Her inner voice taunted. Delight overcame her at the thought that, soon enough, they’d know for certain.

Eist stopped, taking a beat to silently assess the woman pressed up against the door in front of him. Just like before the kiss, she was almost vibrating, but somehow more at-ease, despite the absolute tension radiating through her frame. Once again, she was her own juxtaposition, and he was utterly fascinated.

_I want to stay_ , her voice echoed in his mind, low and filled with certainty and longing. And she’d given him such a look, silently calling him over here—there had been no mistaking her desire. Yet even now, she seemed to hesitate. Like she was still afraid of opening up, of releasing too much.

She simply looked up at him. Those eyes—the absolute death of him, time and again—merely melted. Carefully, slowly enough that she had plenty of time to pull away if she wanted, he lifted his right hand, gently cupping the side of her neck. She exhaled shakily, closing her eyes and pressing her lips into a thin line. He let his thumb brush along the edge of her jaw, watching in mild fascination as the tension slowly slipped from her entire frame.

She turned her head, following his touch until her lips met his thumb. She paused, and he could see the way her mind turned, the way she considered. Then, she tested her teeth against the pad of his thumb, just enough to be felt.

Those dark eyes flicked back to meet his gaze. He was filled with absolute certainty that he was about to be destroyed, and he welcomed the destruction.

The corners of those dark eyes smiled. She knew. She knew and she refused to have mercy.

His grip tightened as he pulled her in, turning her chin so that he could properly meet her smiling mouth with his own. She hummed against his teeth, and his hand felt the vibration in her throat. His fingers slipped further back, sliding into her hair. She grabbed his shirt and hauled him with her, slamming back against the door.

Then she broke away from the kiss, hands slipping around to his shoulder blades as she pulled herself closer, burying her face in the curve of his neck. He felt her teeth again, right above his collarbone, followed by her tongue and lips.

She’d been right, Calanthe thought smugly through the haze of sensation. Eist Tuirseach was a moaner. She flexed her fingers further into his shoulder blades, feeling a surge of heat at the way his muscles rippled under her touch. She redoubled her mouth’s efforts, nipping and sucking along the line of his neck. His right hand tightened in her hair, encouraging her, and his left braced against the door as he leaned further in, seeking her out.

Her head swam at the heaviness of his shaking breaths and the soft, wet sounds of her own mouth against his skin—her only thought was _more_.

Her hands moved without true thought, shaking desperately as they came back to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling blindly. It took every ounce of what little self-control she had left, not to just rip with all her might.

He shifted back, his own hands coming to help. She finally pulled away from his neck, hands still tracing over what parts of him she could reach, through the steadily-opening shirt. Finally, he reached the last button and she gave a low sound of relief, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms.

Fuck. There were more tattoos than she’d imagined, from bicep to the joint of his shoulder on each side. On the left, the swirling design bled further out, over the top of his shoulder and down towards his chest. Her mouth went dry.

Eist wanted to laugh at the wide-eyed wonder in Calanthe’s expression. While he hadn’t wanted her to look at him with the same starry-eyed idealism as Ms. Talke, he didn’t mind this particular expression—she looked at him as if he were a revelation. She slowly moved closer again, coming in to leave panting, open-mouthed kisses along the trail of his left shoulder tattoo, eyelids fluttering closed, as if completely overwhelmed.

Her fingertips became as soft as butterflies, slightly tracing over whatever parts of him that she could reach—his arms, his chest, his neck—as she continued kissing his shoulder.

She’d started holding herself back again, he realized. His heart surged with hot anger once more at the thought that someone had been blessed with this and had declared it _too much_. He channeled that outrage into a more productive path—his left hand slipped into her hair again, pulling with just enough pressure to bring her back to him for another searing kiss which had her melting into him again, her hands scrambling to slip around his neck. His right hand went lower, untucking her silk blouse from her skirt and slipping underneath. She practically jolted at the feeling of his hands on the warm, bare skin of her waist, and he couldn’t help but give a soft sound of delight at both the sensation and her reaction.

Her hands were moving again, her body twisting slightly as she pressed further into him for balance—she was reaching back to unzip her skirt, he realized, all while trying not to break the kiss. He pulled back slightly, dragging her bottom lip between his teeth and earning a whimpering sound of approval. She was shifting against him again, working the skirt down her legs. He couldn’t help but grin as he brought his hands to her hips, keeping her steady as she stepped out and lightly kicked the skirt out of the way.

Gods above, her hips. They’d always looked lovely, but they felt divine. Soft and pliant and perfect for gripping.

She was pulling away again, but keeping her face close to his as her hands went to work on the buttons of her blouse. He stopped her.

“Let me. Please.”

The timbre of his voice, low and rasping with want, sent a wave of dizzying heat through her entire body. Her own voice deserted her entirely, so she merely nodded slightly, raising her hands so that his could take over.

She watched those hands with rapt fascination as they made quick work of the delicate buttons. Those hands had tended to her, had sheltered her, had even pulled her back to safety, away from her own destructive impulses. She wanted nothing more than to pour her whole self into them.

Eist nearly forgot what he was doing, when he glanced up to see the way Calanthe was staring down at his hands on the hem of her blouse. Again, it was a look of utter revelation, and he felt overwhelmed by just how overwhelmed she seemed at the slightest of things.

He realized, for the first time, just how deeply affected she’d always been and just how hard she’d fought, pulling herself back, telling herself not to push further into this thing with him. All because she’d genuinely wanted to do the right thing.

_How could this not be right?_ His mind wondered. But also, his heart simply sang: _You noble, sweet thing. The lengths you went through, the self-sacrifice you were willing to make. How could I not love you?_

He wanted to kiss her again, so he did. But this time, he didn’t let it devolve into fury and passionate ferocity. He cupped her cheek, kept his kisses small and tame and soft, finally letting his tongue slide against hers with all the tenderness it couldn’t quite utter aloud. _You sweet, soft thing_ , his heart repeated _. Oh, let me see you, you sweet, soft thing._

Calanthe’s lungs were shuddering against her ribcage, almost as if she were going to start crying. Except she didn’t feel like crying at all—she felt like simply melting, devolving into a complete puddle on the floor, under the wave of all this tenderness. Eist was absolute gentleness, and it was more overpowering than anything he’d given her before.

The need to be held, to feel him holding her, was stronger than ever. She quickly slid out of her blouse, hands reaching for his waist, pulling him into her again. There was so much more bare skin between them now, and the sensation had her squeezing her eyes shut as her head spun in response.

_Electric_. Simply touching him felt electric. She needed more. But she found herself unable to do anything but accept his soft attentions, opening up more for the gentleness he poured into the kiss.

Calanthe had gone still, but still remained responsive. Eist realized that she had truly allowed herself to relax into the moment, to remain open and soft, and he felt a measure of delighted victory. She’d truly released all of her hesitations and reservations. He thoroughly planned on making sure that she didn’t regret a single second of it.

His hands slipped to her back, finally finding the clasp of her bra. She made a small sound of needy delight as he pulled it away before pulling her back into him. He couldn’t help but moan in approval at the feeling of her, pressing and shifting against him (gods above, women were the best, softest invention ever, he thought—and she just might be the pinnacle of that divine creation). His hands slid further down, mapping out the small of her back and the curve of her ass. She felt delicious beneath his palms, even with the few remaining layers of clothing between them.

She was slowly migrating away from his mouth, kissing the corner of his smile, the line of his jaw. Her hands slid appreciatively down his chest, as if simply savoring the feeling of him. Then they came down to lightly tug at his belt.

“I need this—everything—gone,” she whispered thickly. He stepped back to oblige, slipping out of shoes and socks, and she gladly helped him remove his pants. She reached for his briefs, but he stopped her.

“You’ve still got layers,” he pointed out. More out of a desire to tease than actual concern for fairness. Granted, she was only wearing underwear, her garter belt, and a single stocking, but still.

She immediately reached behind her to unclasp the garter belt. He watched, rather delighted to witness the effect all the movement and shifting had on her breasts.

She caught his gaze and grinned.

“Lech,” she teased in a low tone.

“Unrepentantly,” he returned. She laughed softly, finally undoing the belt and letting it drop, dragging her stocking down along with it.

He knelt down, gently placing a hand on the back of her knee to help steady her as his other hand pulled the stocking off her foot. He looked up, feeling another rush of desire for the way she watched him, all dark eyes and heaving chest.

He noticed the bruise on her stomach, just a few inches above her right hipbone. It had been covered by the garter belt, but it was still sizeable.

“Yours,” she informed him. “From the paintball.”

“Fuck,” he said softly. It looked like it hurt.

“Kiss it,” she commanded lightly, still smiling in a soft, almost-compassionate way. She arched her brows slightly. _If you feel so badly, absolve your guilt._

He couldn’t imagine a better solution. He rose up slightly, taking her hips in his hands again as he bestowed a single, soft kiss on the mark.

Her hands were in his hair again, slipping and playing and encouraging him, silently begging for more.

He moved away from the bruise, kissing down to her hip bone. Her fingers flexed, their tension goading him on. He traveled further down, placing open-mouthed kiss on the black lace of her underwear (black lace, of course she wore black lace and garters, the wonderfully dramatic woman, his mind thought affectionately).

Now she was practically pulling him in the direction she wanted him to go, closer to the center of her thighs—he couldn’t help but chuckle. Yep, she’d definitely lost all forms of hesitation now, he grinned.

She huffed at his amusement. Let her fingers tug just a bit more, directing his gaze back up to her face. She simply stared down at him, knowing full well that he could read her expression clearly enough. _Don’t tease_.

He merely grinned. Oh, he was going to be the death of her.

He slowly stood up, keeping his hands firmly on her hips. In tandem, a wave rose up, through her lungs and throat as she slowly followed his gaze, eventually tilting her chin upwards to maintain eye contact.

He tightened his grip and stepped forward, easily bringing her back against the door. Her pulse skyrocketed at the weight of him pressing into her, the solid warmth of his body against hers. He dipped his head and she countered with a soft whimper, tilting her face further up. He wouldn’t quite let her kiss him, keeping just out of reach of her mouth but always staying close enough to let their noses touch, to let his lips whisper against the corner of her mouth.

He shifted slightly, his right hand sliding over the waistband of her underwear. She could hear her own breath quickening, his little hum of approval in response. Felt the trill of his fingertips, lightly slipping past the lace, slowly pushing further down.

She widened her stance, closing her eyes and silently willing him to continue. Her heartbeat pounded through every inch of her body, her mouth went dry, and more heat pushed through her hips.

She felt the air leave his lungs entirely when he finally reached her center. She knew she was soaking wet, could instantly feel how slick his fingertips were, slipping further into her folds, tracing a path up to her clit.

Still, he waited. She opened her eyes, more than ready to beg and plead, _anything_ to make him continue.

But the words died in her throat, suddenly too tight from the searing blue eyes staring back at her.

_Oh_ , she dazedly thought. _I’m in danger._

Then, he pushed against that taunt bundle of nerves, slowly drawing out a low, shaking sound from her lungs. She trembled and fell forward slightly, forehead bumping against his lips. He continued with deep, measured strokes, far too heavy and completely overwhelming.

She couldn’t ask him to stop, to pull back, just a little. Didn’t really want to, she realized hazily. She wanted to be this completely strung out, helpless to do anything but hang on for the ride. Her head thudded softly against his chest, her desperate pants reverberating oddly in the space between their bodies. Her right arm went up, hooking around his neck for support as her left hand went to his right upper arm, fingers digging into the muscles that were rippling with each movement of his hand.

Eist could feel the way she slowly adjusted, the growing certainty in the roll of her hips against his hand. He nuzzled closer, letting his left hand further pin her hip against the door. He kept his body as close to hers as he could, while still giving his right hand room to move, each shift and arch of her against him sending more sparks across his skin. Her breath gusted down his chest, hot and heavy and so full of desperation—his head was swimming at all the sounds she made, short and sharp and deliciously feminine. Her right hand tightened its grip on the back of his neck, pulling him into her as much as possible.

Her left hand was like a vice, digging into his upper arm. He relished the intensity, the proof of just how deeply he was affecting her, just how much she wanted this, wanted him.

_Too much,_ she’d worried. Fuck, she _was_ far too much and he couldn’t imagine anything better. He found himself hoping it’d leave a mark.

Her hips were rolling hard against him, the desperate tension thrumming through every inch of her frame. He felt the first tremors of her climax and pushed harder.

She gave a sharp cry and slammed against his chest again, pressing her open mouth against his skin like an anchor. He quickly pushed further through that wet heat, slipping inside her and feeling a white-hot jolt at the way her muscles clenched around his fingers, which curled and found the spot that had her moaning. Still she was pushing into his hand, still gripping him for dear life, still seeking more.

His thumb came back to her clit as he shifted his stance, trying to better accommodate his hand’s new angle. She was shifting as well, trying to help—although she was also trying to bite his neck again, which wasn’t entirely helping his attempts to concentrate.

_Too much_ , he thought again with a breathless grin. His hand found rhythm again, fingers pushing and curling as deeply as possible. Deliciously too much.

Now her head pushed back against the door, eyes squeezed shut at the overwhelming sensations. She was far more vocal now. Eist realized anyone walking down the corridor would hear her, and he felt a measure of pride at the thought.

She must have had a similar thought, because she suddenly pulled him in for a kiss, pushing a low, aching moan straight into his lungs. She held him there, not really kissing, but merely covering her own mouth with his, muffling her cries as she shuddered and shattered in his hands.

He let his thumb ease away, but slowly stroked his fingers inside her for a few more beats, drawing out the last shudders and sighs.

Calanthe melted. Her grip on his upper arm disappeared entirely as her hand flopped to her side, her entire body sagging against the door.

She pulled him along with her, now truly kissing him. It wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t ferocious, like before. It was deep and searching. He finally removed his hand, and the sticky wetness on his fingers, slipping back across her hip, made her shiver.

_Oh, this is going to be a mess_ , she thought. And she knew it would be true, in far more ways than just physically. Still, she was past the point of regret. She slipped her hands around his waist, palms singing praises for warmth and softness, sliding further back to pull him fully against her. She was already far too warm and he was warmer still, their skin already taking on the slight almost-tacky feeling just before sweat, and she shivered at the sensation, at the thought that soon enough, she’d have him slick and sweating and _delicious_ —oh, she’d have him fully and unrepentantly and she’d have _him_ , finally. It was going to be a mess and she was going to enjoy every ounce of it.

She already _was_ enjoying it, she mused as she pushed a little further into him, continuing the kiss. Just this had been bliss enough—but the feeling of him pressed so deeply against her was a reminder that she certainly hadn’t had _every_ ounce. With a low growl, she pushed her hands lower, grabbing his arse and grinding him further against her, feeling another rush of breathless wet heat at the feeling of his cock against her hipbone. He made a low sound in response, the noise pushing past her teeth and down her throat.

While she’d rather happily stay pinned up against this door all day, there was still far more sights to see and explore. She took a beat longer to simply kiss him, to draw out the simple electric feeling of his tongue against hers.

She sighed when they finally parted for air.

“There’s just one problem,” she rasped softly.

Eist felt a prick of concern, shifting back slightly. Her dark eyes focused on him again, their hazy look slowly clearing.

“It’s just…I promised myself that I would walk to this door and not take a single step back.” She looked adorably chagrined.

_I don’t like lying_. He couldn’t help but grin at the woman’s commitment to a principle. She truly was noble, in the oddest, most endearing way. He dipped his head closer again, kissing the tip of her nose. “I think I can help with that.”

She hummed, as if she hadn’t expected anything less. He liked the idea that she hadn’t—the idea that she’d known full well that he’d help her, no matter what.

He stepped back, pulling her away from the door as well. Grabbed those delicious hips and hauled them up, feeling another surge of delight at the softness of her thighs, wrapping around his waist. His hands gripped her ass, holding her closer as her arms wrapped tighter around his neck.

She grinned, in that same open, breathless way she had, the day she’d taken him up in the jet. Nuzzled her nose against his playfully as her hips dipped slightly, pressing against his cock. Even through the last two remaining layers of fabric between them, he felt the wet heat of her center and his entire body tightened in anticipation.

He made it as far as the couch. It seemed an absolute crime, wasting another ten seconds to actually go all the way back to the bedroom. She approved the decision, falling back on the cushions with a light noise of amusement, still watching him with a syrupy-sweet expression.

Her knees widened and her brows lifted, the invitation unmistakable.

He hesitated for a moment. “Wait, I should—”

She sat up, frowning in confusion.

“Protection,” he supplied. He wasn’t sure, maybe there were condoms in the bathroom. Generally he was a bit more prepared, but one usually didn’t take a trip to a children’s hospital expecting it to end like this, and his bags and all his belongings were at the palace now.

“Oh,” she looked relieved. “It’s fine. As long as you’ve had a health check recently—”

“All clear.” He held up his hands. She grinned. Still, given what he knew about her past, he gently pointed out, “But, would you feel…safer, if—”

“No one touches my pills these days,” she assured him drolly. She seemed amused, rather than offended. Then she sat up fully, reaching for his hips and pulling him closer, “Now stop being so sweet and come fuck me on this awful couch.”

He laughed at that. “I think it’s a very nice couch—”

“Yes, you would,” she returned with absolute certainty, the corner of her lip curling into a slight sneer.

“Careful making digs about my preferences.” He warned, cupping her face in his hands and leaning forward, letting his lips brush over hers as he added, “After all, you’re one of them.”

She hummed at that, unable to argue. Wrapped her fingers around his wrists as she leaned in, welcoming the languid kiss.

He released her, gently guiding her back onto the cushions again. His hands and mouth went on a delightful walkabout, down her neck, over her shoulders, spending time exploring the valley between her breasts and the peaks of her nipples. She arched and squirmed, her own hands mimicking his movements, sliding through his hair and over his shoulders, fingernails dragging lightly back up the sides of his arms.

Eist Tuirseach was obviously an assassin, she decided. He’d decided to kill her with sheer anticipation—and was succeeding quite beautifully. She had no desire to fight for her life.

Currently, he was nipping the underside of her right breast, making his way back up to take her nipple between his teeth. Her knees involuntarily tightened around him—even if she hadn’t been watching him with absolute fascination, she’d still be able to feel his smile against her skin.

But it didn’t matter, as she could hardly blink. He closed his eyes and focused on sucking and biting, but half of her reaction wasn’t from his mouth’s (still quite wonderful) efforts. It was from him, the angle of his face, the tension in his shoulders, the absolute softness that somehow seemed perfectly at-peace with the intensity and ferocity he’d also brought.

Her hips coiled at the memory of being held against the door, of feeling his hand pinning her hip while his other pushed her over the edge without a moment of hesitation, with absolute control.

There was fucking. There was being fucked. She had absolutely _been_ fucked. No control on her part, no evened score—and surprisingly, no concern.

She generally didn’t have that issue, with the women she took into her bed. But the men who got this far—there often came a point where the odd devotion became replaced with a need to overpower and conquer. She never really let it happen (far too competitive in all things, she was true to form even in moments of passion), never let herself completely be at another’s mercy. Never let her partner forget that everything they were given was at her own discretion, and that she’d take it back, with interest, in the end.

But she’d stood there and let him take, without a second of hesitation. Hadn’t felt an ounce of apprehension, or a need to prove that she was equally capable of holding her own.

Maybe because he’d already proven himself, in a way. Had proven that he already believed in her strength and her power, that no matter what was happening, she still held absolute control—he’d stop, even now, if she said the word, without question. She didn’t need to prove a point, because he’d shown her, time and again, that he understood.

And even in the moment of taking control, all he had done…was give. He’d made her helpless but all he’d done was focus on pouring everything back into her.

She wouldn’t mind him putting a little _more_ back into her, she thought wryly. Her left leg shifted, her thigh sliding between his and pressing against the hardness waiting there. She arched and slowly continued, lungs tightening at the feel of him against her skin.

He made a soft sound at the contact, and she shifted again, using her hand at the back of his head to hold his mouth in place against her breast as she lifted her hip, slowly massaging his cock with her thigh.

His teeth came out again, encouraging her. She hummed and happily obliged.

She hadn’t taken her time like this in ages. Then again, she usually had already built up so much tension beforehand, with flirting and innuendo—and she usually didn’t really have time on her side, when it came to arranging rendezvous.

_You still don’t have time on your side_ , her inner voice reminded her. For once, it was gentle in its tone.

She closed her eyes against the thought. Focused on the heat of his mouth against her skin, the slight shift of his hips as he pushed against her thigh, the feeling of his hair tangled around her fingers. She opened her eyes again, smiling as she stroked again with her thigh, watching the myriad of ways he reacted—the closing of his eyes, the tightening of his shoulders, the shift of his whole body, now lined with delicious tension.

_Hm, yes, it’s killer, isn’t it?_ She mused. _Fair play, darling._

He tried to lift his head. She tightened her grip and held him in place. He growled slightly, and her stomach flipped at the sound. He put his weight into his left arm, leaving his right hand free to grab her wrist, pulling her own hand away from his hair and pinning it to the couch.

Her throat went dry and her hips sang in agony, desperate for more. He continued moving downward, kissing and nipping along the line of her stomach, over her hip bones.

He shifted further away, and her thigh couldn’t stroke him anymore, much to her dismay. Then he was sitting up fully, watching her with a kind of dark-eyed wonder. She knew she must look an absolute state—but if anything, she liked thinking that she currently matched him, with his completely disheveled hair and his flushed skin and bitten lips.

In all his travels, Eist Tuirseach had seen some breathtaking sights. Currently, his mind couldn’t recall a single one that rivaled this. The afternoon sun was coming through the windows, highlighting the copper brushing through her hair and outlining the warm glow of her body. Her chest was flushed and her smile was beaming, and she looked truly at-ease, truly overjoyed.

The idea that he was at least partially responsible for that joy only flooded his veins with more desire and delight.

With a theatrical air, she lifted her hands slightly, drawing attention to them as they slowly migrated to her underwear, slipping them off with dramatic slowness. He glanced up to find her dark eyes watching him in rapt attention, her breath quickening as she simply took in his response.

She held them up, lightly dropping them off the side of the couch.

“Your turn,” she prompted softly.

Well, he was a man of fairness. He rose to his feet, still a bit caught by the dark gaze that followed him. She shifted against the couch cushions, tilting her head slightly.

Again, it was like the card game. A patient predator, waiting to pounce.

She bit her lip as he slowly removed the final layer, flushing in anticipation at the sight of his cock.

She didn’t reach for him. She merely widened her knees again, and that was command enough. He gladly rejoined her on the couch, but he still stayed a little further back, gently cupping her left calf in his hand and bringing her knee up. He kissed the side of it, just past the end of the bandage.

She shivered and gave a small, needy sound that made his head spin. He moved his mouth further up, pressing another kiss into her skin. She was soft and hot beneath his lips, and he could feel the tension in her muscles, the way she tried to hold still and let him continue.

He honestly hadn’t expected her to be so…compliant. Not that he was complaining. She was continually murdering him with all this softness. But more than anything, he was in a constant state of wonder at just how much she gave. How much she just…let herself be loved. How she seemed to understand, despite her own impatience, that he needed little moments to take his time, and how she fought against her own nature, in a way, to give him those moments.

Granted, it wasn’t as if she didn’t get something out of it, too, he mused, smiling against her skin as he placed another kiss further up her thigh. Now they had shifted slightly—he was leaning further in, and she had slowly slipped her knee over his shoulder. He could feel the way she pressed, just a little, getting as much of her calf as possible to actually touch his skin. It was kind of endearing, just how desperate she was to touch him as much as she could.

Calanthe had to remind herself to breathe. Watching him slowly make his way up her thigh was so overwhelming that she seemed incapable of doing anything other than stare. He hadn’t shaved since the day before yesterday (not that she truly paid attention to his looks, from day to day, mind you, not that she paid particular attention to the days that he sat across the desk, looking a little more like the photo she’d first seen of him, the one that had sparked the whole start of this fascination), and the light prickle of his stubble on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh was sending sparks of electricity straight to her core.

_Oh, please hurry_ , she prayed, and at the same time, she hoped he’d take his time. She wasn’t going to be ready, when he reached his destination. She wasn’t ever going to be ready, she realized. She closed her eyes and reminded herself to breathe again.

Her entire body erupted into shock as he nuzzled his way into her cunt, hot tongue and heavy growling huff of delight. Her thighs instantly snapped around his ears and her hands were in his hair before she even realized that they’d moved. His hands slipped around her legs, pulling the tops of her thighs and holding her close, keeping her from bucking too much under the duress of his ( _lovey, wonderful, absolutely delightful_ ) tongue.

She willed herself not to shatter. Pushed her hips further into the couch, pulled her thighs a bit further apart so that she didn’t crush the man (she’d hate to end him before he’d truly finished), tightened her grip in his hair as she slowly rocked into him, watching his reaction in a mixture of curiosity and absolute desire.

He shifted slightly, blue eyes coming up to meet her gaze.

Fuck. She couldn’t even remember to remind herself to breathe. She could see the way those searing eyes smiled, could feel the smug delight in the movement of his tongue, in the press of his fingers against her thighs as he slowly drew them further apart.

Again, somehow, despite her current level of pliant openness, Calanthe seemed to be the one in control, Eist thought. She was shifting, pushing her elbows behind her to prop herself up, trying not to disturb his efforts as she simply watched in wide-eyed fascination. She gave a slight shudder and he felt the rush of wet heat against his chin, and a surge of delight at realizing just how much she enjoyed watching him. He let his tongue slide further down, enjoying the effects of his work, closing his eyes at the feeling and the taste of her.

When he looked up again, she was still watching, mouth open in soft wonder. His tongue slowly traced its way back up to her clit, delighting at the way her body tensed and shifted in response. Her right hand came up again, fingers pushing through his hair.

He grinned and latched on, sucking with enough force to make her jump.

Her lustful expression broke into a breathless smile as well, and his heart clenched at the sight. Her grip tightened in his hair as her hips began to shift—her hand held him in place as she slowly rocked, her eyes still watching him raptly, making sure he was alright with the change.

He smiled, held on tighter to her thighs, and let her set the pace. A look of relief fluttered across her face when she realized that he was willing to follow along (as if she could ever doubt that—he’d do anything she asked, if it meant making her this breathless and delighted). She let go of hesitation and focused on pushing herself over the edge.

There she was, he thought with a swell of satisfaction. The hunter that had been waiting to pounce, all this time. He watched her slowly fall apart with each push of her hips, each sharp, ragged breath, each pull of his tongue and teeth. She flopped back on the cushions again, her right hand still holding him in place as she shuddered around him, thighs pushing past the grip of his hands to tighten around his ears again. He closed his eyes and rode through the storm, delighting in every second.

Then she was melting, her hand lightly tugging him forward, further up. He easily followed, his face breaking into another joyful grin at the smile she wore as she looked up at him. She let her hands cup his face for a beat, then pulled him in for a kiss. She hummed at the taste of herself on his lips, and his brain short-circuited. He chased the sensation, pushing further into her mouth.

Her hand slid further down, dipping into her own center before lightly stroking his cock. His hips jolted at the warm wetness on her fingers, how electric they felt, sliding up and down, growing heavier with each stroke. She shifted, pulling away from the kiss to watch him again—he followed her lead, letting her guide him inside her.

Eist let out a low, soft exhale as he pushed all the way in, and Calanthe nearly came again at the mere sound. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips as he slowly pulled and pushed back in again, as if simply savoring the feeling of finally being inside her. She watched his expression flicker through changes and emotions—relief, delight, immediate tension again, wonder, want, absolute feral desire—and he simply stared back, letting her look.

Obviously, physically, yes, they were rather past the point of layers. But she hadn’t really expected things to get this…bare. To be able to continue stripping things away, finding more moments to remove some other layer between them.

Then, she felt a ripple of amusement. Why _hadn’t_ she expected exactly this? She’d read his work, she’d spent hours with him, she knew the man wore his heart on his sleeve, did everything with an open honesty that was both vulnerable and overwhelmingly fierce. Why had she expected this to be any different than any other aspect of his life?

_Oh, you darling thing_ , she thought warmly.

Calanthe was watching him with an oddly adoring expression, Eist noted (though again, something about this particular expression didn’t bother him—because somehow, he felt that she was finally, truly seeing him, through it all). He pushed further in, swiveling his hips and pressing her further into the couch, giving a breathless moan at the delicious feeling and the way she twittered in response. He thought of earlier in the day, pulling her into him and shielding her from the glass and the gunfire. She’d felt so tiny, so fragile then. Now, he felt the power of her thighs around him, the solidness of her chest as she arched into him, the strength of her arms as she pulled him in closer—she was utterly invincible, he thought numbly. How could he have ever doubted that?

Her hands slipped and twisted through his hair as her hips began to move, matching the rock of his own. She lifted her chin, letting their noses brush as she kept her eyes open and locked onto his. He rolled his hips harder and she gave a breathless noise of approval, tightening the grip of her thighs.

This was too static, Calanthe thought. Too overwhelming, too hard to breath. Eist was deliciously solid above her, around her, inside her, but she now felt helpless in an entirely unwelcome way.

_Just…tell me_ , his voice repeated in her mind. She hadn’t fully told him everything she wanted to, she realized. She _needed_ to be able to tell him—but not verbally. She pushed herself up, capturing his mouth with her own and pressing a searing kiss against his lips. He responded with another deep swivel of his hips that had stars shooting behind her eyelids.

She slid her hands to his chest, pushing him back. He withdrew, flushed and bewildered—but she didn’t give him time to ask questions. She sat up, pushing him so that he was fully sitting up, on the edge of the couch. She kept her right leg wrapped around his hip, shifting and letting her left foot anchor on the floor for leverage (which also, consequently, was a little easier on her injured knee). His hands were on her hips, holding her steady as she slid into his lap and he slid inside her again.

“Your knee,” he pointed out, a bit breathlessly.

“Fuck it,” she growled, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and giving a push of her hips to prove her point. This particular position was going to have her muscles quite upset with her tomorrow, but some things were worth it, she decided. Then, with a wry grin, she added, “Besides, look how well things went for you, last time you had to patch it up. Who knows what’ll happen if you have to bandage it again later?”

He laughed at that, pulling her hips further into him again. His hands slid further back, fingers flexing into her arse, and she added more movement to the rocking, feeling a ripple of satisfaction for the way he growled in approval, holding on tighter.

She wrapped her right arm fully around his neck, pushing up on his shoulder to better control her movements. She pushed and swiveled, closing her eyes and putting all of her intentions into her actions.

_Can you feel it, can you see? You never pushed too hard, you were never out of line—I want you this much, I feel it this deeply._

She’d never really been concerned about taking care of her lovers before, she realized. She always knew they’d walk away satisfied, if for no other reason than her position and political power were aphrodisiac enough. Granted, she did always want to leave a good impression, naturally, and had taken measures to ensure she did so. But that had all been from a purely physical standpoint.

This concern was entirely emotional. Physically, he was very aware of just how much she wanted him, she knew—but she needed him to know it went beyond that, too.

This wasn’t enough, she realized again. The position was uncomfortable and she still didn’t have enough control to truly prove her point, to truly let go and unleash everything she needed to, in this moment.

Eist felt a wave of confusion as she slipped away again, sliding to her feet and pushing against his chest.

“Just—further back,” she instructed breathlessly. He followed her directions, moving further up against the back of the cushions as she climbed back onto the couch, straddling him as he helped her settle onto his cock again.

Oh, her knee, he thought with another flash of concern. She was going to break open the cut again. Still, it was hard to think about it, when her hips were between his hands again, swiveling and rocking and pulling the most divine sensations through his entire body.

She gripped the back of the couch, using it to leverage more of her body into each roll of her hips. Her chest was bumping into his with each movement, her pants filled with a kind of breathless delight that was both smug and utterly adorable.

_Too much_. Their skin kept sticking together from the heat of their bodies, each roll and lift of her hips producing the most deliciously wet sounds, their breathing ragged and delighted, his hands rejoicing at the feeling of her muscles shifting and rippling beneath them—it was like being in the eye of a hurricane, and he couldn’t imagine wanting anything other than exactly this.

He felt the tension rising and held on tighter. She understood—because she merely grinned wickedly and rode him harder, tilting her chin up to watch him down the length of her nose, both feral and completely in-control, pleased and curious and absolutely merciless.

This was payback, pure and simple, he realized with a flash of delight. She was dead-set on making him feel exactly like he’d made her feel, up against the door.

If he’d made her feel half this wonderful, he’d consider it a job well done, he decided. Not that he hadn’t been pretty certain of its reception before, mind you.

Then, she stopped. Stayed perfectly still, keeping him as deeply inside her as possible.

Her dark eyes were dancing, sharp teeth on full display with her open-mouthed smirk.

His hands instinctively pulled at her hips, trying to regain the sense of friction.

“Don’t,” she whispered, soft and commanding at the same time. “Just…wait.”

It was the hardest order he’d ever had to follow in his life. Still, he let his grip soften against her, feeling another rush of delight blossom in his chest for the way she smiled, when she realized that he was obeying.

“It’s agony, isn’t it?” She rasped, voice still thrumming with a ragged sense of desire.

He wasn’t sure he could answer verbally—thankfully, she didn’t seem to need him to.

Her left hand stayed on the back of the couch. But her right slowly slipped down, between them. He felt it lightly brushing against him as she stroked her clit with long, slow movements. Her muscles clenched around him immediately and his pulse skyrocketed.

“Absolute torture,” she breathed, watching him with glowing delight.

_Too much_ , he thought. He’d been warned and he’d accepted responsibility for the consequences, but gods above, he’d had no idea what he was truly agreeing to. And honestly, he couldn’t be more delighted at the realization.

He felt her tightening around him, felt the almost-imperceptible shift of her hips. His own tension rose again, and with a blink of surprise, he realized that he was far closer to the edge than he’d known.

Her hand quickened, as did her breathing.

She leaned in, letting her lips brush against his ear. He could feel the warmth of her body, could practically feel the pulse in her neck, humming so close to his mouth.

“Now you know,” she whispered, voice filled with certainty. “You wanted to know how I feel about all this—now you know.”

It felt exquisite. Otherworldly. Inevitable and overpowering. Beyond words, or even emotion. She stayed there, whimpering softly against his ear as she shuddered and clenched around his cock, gently rocking without ever letting him slip from inside her, even the slightest amount.

“Now you know,” she repeated. This time, her voice wasn’t certain and in-control. It was shaking and aching and desperate, much like his own reaction. His hands clutched at her hips, holding her as tightly against him as he could—she gave one last deep, slow swivel and he came undone completely, moaning into her neck as her left hand came up to hold his head in place, pressing him further into her. He couldn’t stop himself from biting into the tense line of her neck, from firmly holding her in place as her hips tried to lift and jolt in response.

She kept her mouth next to his ear, moaning loudly enough to practically be a scream, breathless and delighted and just as overwhelmed as he felt.

She really was going to be the death of him, he thought as the final shockwaves rippled through his body. He felt her relax as well, the full weight of her settling against him. But oh, what a way to go.

Calanthe’s throat felt dry and aching, her lips suddenly too tight, dehydrated. Her mind also clicked back to more practical matters.

“Oh shit,” she murmured. “What time is it?”

* * *

Eist took a moment to simply appreciate the view as Calanthe moved back to the front door (yep, her knee had begun to bleed again, he’d need to fix that, soon). She found the cellphone in the pocket of her skirt and quickly dialed.

“I’m safe,” she answered, eyes flicking over to meet him again. She smiled softly, hand lightly ruffling through her thoroughly-wild hair. “Yes, I just…wasn’t quite paying as close attention to the time as I thought.”

She blushed at that. It was utterly adorable. She glanced down at her knee, frowning slightly. She gave a soft hum, as if processing something Alcise had mentioned. Then she looked up at Eist again, lightly lifting her leg as if to point out the problem.

He merely arched his brows. _I told you._

She grinned. _No regrets_.

_None_ , he thought warmly. Still, he got up and made his way back to the kitchen, to grab the first aid kit. He heard the soft padding of bare feet on hardwood behind him and knew that she was following.

“Right,” she spoke again. “So…when will we….”

She sighed a bit. Eist paused, watching her expression. Then, with a press of her lips, she nodded. “Understood. Talk to you in an hour, then.”

“What’s the latest?” He asked, as soon as she hung up.

“They’ve identified the would-be assassin. Though the title seems a bit lofty, given what we’ve learned so far." She flicked her eyes heavenwards, as if more irritated than concerned. “A man named Tirbez Vin. A team has been sent to his home, and they’re going through his things now. Apparently he belonged to this group who call themselves The Shepherds.”

He frowned at that. She raised her eyebrows as she clarified, “Shepherd. Someone who protects the sheep from lions.”

He understood, but his frown deepened. “How big is this group?”

She shrugged. “Alcise has been monitoring them for a while. Seemed a bit all-talk, to be honest. Hopefully we’ll have more answers soon.”

He hummed at that, trying not to be too irritated at her nonchalance—mainly because he saw the slight lift of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw. She was more concerned than she pretended to be. She was trying to be brave. He wouldn’t take that away from her.

Instead, he’d do what he could. He grabbed the kit, finding a new bandage and turning back to her. “Alright, you. C’mere.”

She put her weight into her right foot, offering her left knee for him as he crouched. He frowned as he realized the old one would hurt while being removed.

“Just rip it off,” she drawled, obviously amused by his compassion.

Still, he tried to remain as delicate as possible. By the time he finished, he looked up to see her smiling softly back at him.

Then, with an arch of her brow, she said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I really want to take a shower right now.”

“What a coincidence. So do I.”

* * *

Coincidence or not, some things were inevitable. Calanthe smiled at the thought, bracing her hands against the bathroom counter as Eist gripped her hips and continued pushing from behind. The cool marble felt wonderful against her still-raw palms, whose condition hadn’t been helped by the heat of the shower.

She dipped her head and let out a soft, low exhale as another wave rippled up her spine. The air was still half-steam, making it harder to breathe—as if that wasn’t already an issue, with the way this man touched her. Still she pushed back, arching further into him, into the grasp of his hands and the force of his thrusts.

She might well pass out, she thought idly. Eist seemed intent on repaying her for the performance on the couch (and maybe, also, some of her efforts in the shower, though she was just trying to make sure they were properly cleaned off—or so she’d claim, til her dying breath), driving her to near-insanity.

Of course, she would have to retaliate. Then of course, he would retaliate in turn. It could become quite the vicious cycle, she mused. She rather liked the idea of it.

_Don’t get too attached to your little daydream_ , her inner voice warned.

She pressed her lips into a line and pushed it out of her mind. She reached up, trying not to disturb his delicious rhythm as she swiped her hand across the fogged-up mirror, clearing away enough to see his face in the reflection.

He glanced up, catching her gaze. He had a momentary flutter of surprise, then merely grinned breathlessly at her.

She really couldn’t breathe anymore. Her pulse was already heated and humming from the way she’d seen him looking at her, just before he’d glanced up. The absolute want and adoration in his expression as he watched her body, moving beneath his hands. There was lust and there was also such soft wonder, as if he’d never seen something quite so lovely in all his life.

He was still wearing that same expression—except now he was simply looking straight into her eyes.

She couldn’t stop the ridiculous beam spreading across her face. She ducked her head and laughed breathlessly, feeling another surge of joy at the tension coiling through her body, rippling and building into an overwhelming wave.

Watching Calanthe’s face as she came was like a religious experience, Eist decided. She was so unguardedly joyful—she’d removed all of her makeup in the shower, and for the first time ever, he truly saw her without any artifice at all. It was like the sun had replaced the moon. She shone so brightly, so completely free of hesitation or restraint.

He loved it all, he realized. The sun, the moon, the stars in her eyes, every nuance he’d ever seen of her, even the ones that seemed irritating as hell at first glance.

She shuddered and gasped and devolved into a breathless, low chuckle again, and he couldn’t help but follow close behind.

* * *

Eist drew the curtains, blocking out as much of the early evening sun as possible. Calanthe gave a low, barely audible moan of appreciation as she sank beneath the covers. She smiled softly as the mattress dipped under the weight of him, his hand on her hip lightly pulling her closer. He rolled onto his side, nuzzling into her curve of her right shoulder, keeping quiet as she continued talking on the phone.

This time, when she’d called to check in with Alcise, she’d also gotten the chance to talk with Pavetta, who was currently saying something now—Eist couldn’t fully make out the words but he could tell it was her voice.

Calanthe hummed. The phone was in her left hand, leaving her right hand free to trill lightly up and down his forearm, which was currently draped across her waist.

“I know, sweetheart.” Her voice was tender, absolutely motherly. “And it _is_ important to understand that it certainly could have been much worse. That isn’t weakness; that’s awareness.”

He let his thumb stroke lightly against her left hipbone.

“But you do have to decide, at a certain point, that you’ve devoted enough time to agonizing over the past,” Calanthe added quietly. “Yes, today was tough, and yes, it could have been tougher. But we all survived, and now we must focus on trying to prevent such a day from ever repeating. What’s done is done; we cannot undo it. But we _can_ prevent it from happening again. That is what you must focus on.”

No, she certainly didn’t coddle, he thought. But no one could doubt the love and affection in her voice, or that way she obviously ached at not being there to physically comfort her daughter.

A pause. Pavetta’s voice.

Then, Calanthe swallowing thickly: “I love you too, my darling.”

Another response from Pavetta. “I will, I promise.”

She hung up, shifting away to place the phone on the bedside table and taking a beat to double-check that her alarm had been set. This time, she wouldn’t check back for another three hours, after some much-needed sleep—if there was an emergency, Alcise would call ahead of schedule.

She settled back in beside Eist, tone laced with wry amusement, “I’m supposed to thank you, for saving me—on Pavetta’s behalf.”

He hummed at that. “Well, I think you did a rather bang-up job of expressing your gratitude, all on your own.”

She huffed in amusement. Still, she lightly teased, “And you don’t feel that there’s any other _additional_ …gratitude necessary?”

She could hear the grin in his voice as he lightly patted her hipbone. “Sleep, tiger.”

“Lioness.”

“Sleep.”

She grinned and closed her eyes, further sinking into the feeling of safety. Yes, she’d wanted to be back in his arms again, and with good reason—it felt right here, safe here.

The right choice. Perhaps this truly had been the right choice.

He shifted slightly, placing a soft, tiny kiss on her shoulder. Quietly, he confessed, “The…too much you were afraid of being. I just wanted to say…it’s relative.”

She blinked, trying to catch up.

“Too much for some is not nearly enough for others.” He explained softly. He lightly gripped her hip again, a half-hug. “And for some, it’s exactly, perfectly enough.”

Her throat tightened and she blinked back tears as she stared into the darkness.

Fuck, she thought. This was supposed to cure her of her odd emotional attachment to the man. It had only made her fall deeper in love.

Hopelessly, helplessly deeper. To the point that she couldn’t even deny it was anything other than love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, also, fun fact: this next chapter is Rated E as well. I hadn't planned for it to be, but these two finally-a-little-less-idiots can't keep their hands to themselves, so here we are.


	25. So This is Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So parts of this chapter is Rated E.  
> If that's not your thing, only read the sections titled: "The Queen's Palace, Cintra" and "Sixteen Hours Earlier, Aldersberg, Aedirn."

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Visindra pushed her reading glasses further up her nose as she continued reading. Then, with a soft hum, she handed the paper back to Triss, “It’s good. You can send it on.”

The younger woman nodded, pulling out her PDA and tapping out an email to confirm Visindra’s approval to the royal press secretary.

It hadn’t taken long for the press to learn about the attack. Pavetta had barely been back inside the palace before people started arriving en masse, leaving more flowers and cards and balloons outside the gates, milling around, waiting for some kind of sign that everything was alright.

Well-intentioned, most of them. But definitely only adding to the anxiety and unease.

Hille breezed into Visindra’s office with a light knock against the open door.

“How is she?” Visindra sat up, on-alert. _She_ was Pavetta, who’d been taken upstairs to get some much-needed rest.

“Asleep at last,” Hille assured her. “Duny’s with her; Danek’s posted by the door. Renfri’s on her way to the hospital now. Our in-house medic stitched the bullet graze, but she had to go to a proper hospital for x-rays on her ankle.”

Visindra hummed. Triss winced in sympathy.

“How are you?” Visindra asked quietly. Hille had been there, too, when it all went to hell. Had been forced to huddle in a small side closet with Pavetta while Danek stood guard outside, unsure of what was happening or where Calanthe was.

“Exhausted.” Hille pulled the word all the way from the soles of her feet.

That immediately brought Visindra’s attention back to her wife, working in the office next door. She rose to her feet, lightly patting Hille’s arm as she slipped out the door.

Unsurprisingly, Alcise was hunched over her laptop, eyes wide and bloodshot.

Visindra took a seat on the couch, patting the space next to her. “Here. Now.”

Her wife stopped, blinking in surprise. “I’m sorry, do you have me confused for someone else? A fucking lapdog, perhaps?”

Visindra rolled her eyes. “You can take three minutes to sit and just breathe.”

With a heavy sigh, Alcise hauled herself out of the desk chair and moved to the couch. She must truly be worn out, if she was too tired to be stubborn, Visindra mused. She gently placed her hand against Alcise’s temple, pulling her further down, until she was resting in her lap, closing her eyes gratefully against the light stroke of Visindra’s fingers through her hair.

A beat passed.

“I should have…tried harder,” Alcise confessed quietly, voice rasping with exhaustion.

Visindra frowned, confused.

“I should have put my foot down. Told her she couldn’t go.”

Visindra huffed at that. “And what would that have done, exactly? It would have ended exactly the same—with Cal doing as she damn well pleased. It’s just like the women’s committee meeting, love. You can beg, you can plead, you can cry and scream and make demands—in the end, that woman will always do exactly what she sets her mind to.”

Alcise hummed, unable to refute the claim.

“A family trait, it seems,” Visindra added, letting her fingertips lightly trace the curve of her wife’s ear.

Alcise closed her eyes again. The corner of her mouth quirked downward, along with the furrow of her brows. “Tirbez Vin—the man who tried to kill Cal—he’s…he’s part of that awful shepherd’s website. He was...the only one that I thought wasn’t actually a threat.”

She felt the muscles of Visindra’s thighs tense beneath her cheek. She quietly continued, “He was…so vitriolic and over the top. I thought: he’s just fucking hot air. He doesn’t possess the abilities to actually do anything. He isn’t capable of planning something as detailed as an assassination.”

She’d nearly collapsed in shock, when a member of the search team assigned to Tirbez’s house called her with the news—they’d gotten on his computer and discovered that he was, in fact, the one behind the persona of _myusernamewasalreadytaken_.

It didn’t make sense. It _still_ didn’t make sense.

“I don’t know how I got it so wrong,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “And of all the times, of all the ways to get it wrong…”

“No,” Visindra leaned in, placing a kiss on her temple. “No. Whatever happened today, it didn’t happen because of you. Cal made the decision to go this morning, but if Laern _was_ involved, then he’d already been involved before today. There’s no way that someone found out about her appearance today, and then was able to get to him quickly enough to make him do what he did—”

Alcise sat up suddenly at that, practically pushing Visindra from hovering over her. “Wait. That’s the thing, isn’t it?”

She looked back to her wife with wide eyes. “Laern was on Duny and Pavetta’s detail. No one could have predicted that Calanthe would swap with Duny—”

“So was Duny the target?” Visindra pieced it together.

Alcise was merely staring at her. “I’m sure the idea of taking out Cal instead was more than tempting. Especially if she wasn’t the original target.”

She bolted back to her desk, grabbing the phone and dialing a number hurriedly. She explained as she waited for an answer, “I have a team at Laern’s flat, too. This may help their search.”

Visindra nodded, simply waiting. Her mind swirled with new questions. She’d known about The Shepherds for months now—had known about their vitriolic hatred of Calanthe in particular. But she’d read some of the transcripts Alcise had given the queen, and she knew that they generally didn’t care for Duny either.

Pavetta was a saint, in their eyes. A hapless little thing, at the mercy of a vicious mother and a controlling fiancé. The idea always made Visindra want to laugh—obviously, they’d never met her goddaughter, if they really thought she could ever be controlled by anyone, for any reason. Oh, the rows she and Cal used to have, when she was a teenager. It’d made Visindra quite grateful that neither she nor Alcise had ever felt a motherly urge.

These people genuinely saw themselves as some kind of white knight, rushing to rescue the beautiful princess. And they were willing to slay any dragon to do it—even dragons that weren’t really dragons at all.

Alcise finished her call and looked back over at her, with a light sigh.

“Should we tell Cal?”

Alcise shook her head softly. “She’s due for a check-in, soon enough. It can wait, for now. And until we know for certain that she wasn’t the original target, Hochebuz protocol stands.”

Visindra nodded. She took a deep breath and watched her wife slip back into her desk chair, focusing on her computer once more.

* * *

**Eist’s Rental Flat, Cintra.**

Calanthe had always been a light sleeper, but she practically pounced awake at the first low humming notes of her alarm, quickly reaching over to silence it and praying that it hadn’t disturbed Eist, who was currently still burrowed against her shoulder.

She took a beat, simply smiling into the darkness at the steady pull of his breathing. No, he was still dead to the world, thoroughly worn out by their earlier endeavors.

He’d certainly earned a good night’s sleep, she thought, shifting to place a light kiss atop his head. Then slowly, painstakingly, she slid out of his embrace, gingerly padding into the kitchen to place her call.

“I’m safe,” she said, as soon as Alcise answered.

“So are we,” Alcise returned. “Visindra had Pavetta take something for her nerves; she’s finally sleeping.”

“Good,” Calanthe breathed, feeling a ripple of relief. “What about our shooter?”

She wasn’t saying that man’s name, any more than absolutely necessary.

“We’re still digging,” Alcise sighed. “Also, Hille finally convinced Renfri to go to the emergency room. Her ankle is definitely fractured again.”

Calanthe hummed, throat tightening in concern again. She’d asked Alcise to look into Renfri’s injuries, during a previous call, knowing full-well that the young woman would push herself on nothing but fear and adrenaline until her body simply collapsed.

“How was she even running around on that thing?”

“Adrenaline and the need to protect the ones we care about—powerful damn motivators,” Alcise drawled softly.

That reminded Calanthe. “You are keeping Mr. Moussek in the loop—at least letting him know that Eist is alright as well?”

She could feel the way Alcise shifted on the other end. “I have told him that Mr. Tuirseach is safe, yes.”

_Mr. Tuirseach_ , a quiet reminder of Calanthe’s own slip, referring to him by his first name.

“And is he?” Alcise prompted. “Safe?”

She wasn’t talking about his physical wellbeing, Calanthe knew. She cleared her throat, ducking her head as she returned, “Yes. He is.”

Alcise merely hummed, but Calanthe could still hear the wariness in that small sound. However, she didn’t offer her thoughts on the matter—she didn’t really need to. Calanthe knew them, clearly enough.

_It’s fine_ , she reminded herself. _It’s only a moment, only for the time we stay here_.

“We’re still interviewing all the security personnel, and doing another round of intensive background checks on everyone’s recent activity,” Alcise announced, changing the subject. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

_It should be long now, until you can come home._ That was what she meant. Calanthe felt her chest tighten at the thought.

“Right,” she said slowly, gaze sliding back to the currently closed bedroom door. “Well, I’d like to get a little more sleep. So I’ll check back in three hours.”

“Of course.” She could almost feel the curt nod Alcise gave in response.

Three hours. She had at least three hours. But she wouldn’t prolong the moment—that wasn’t part of the deal.

She hung up and looked around. Stooped to pick up the discarded stocking on the kitchen floor, bloody and torn. Glanced across the open space to the living room, where the couch still held the indentions left by her knees, hers and Eist’s underwear still crumpled on the floor.

She walked around, slowly gathering their things, putting her clothes atop the duffel bag, his across the couch. Separated again, the way they were supposed to be. She grabbed some contact solution from the bag, eyes feeling gummy from sleeping with her contacts in.

She went into the bathroom, taking a beat to simply stare at her reflection. She had a light mark on her neck, from Eist’s mouth, when she’d held him down on the couch and showed him just how deeply and desperately she’d felt towards him. She smiled softly.

Once she got back to the bedroom, she slowly closed the door, giving her eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness.

“Open the curtains,” Eist’s voice mumbled softly. She paused, feeling a ripple of surprise that he was awake again. Then she walked around the edge of the bed, slowly pulling back the curtains.

It was late evening now, the summer sky finally turning purple, the outline of the city furthered blackened against the flashing neon signs and street lamps below. She turned back to see him watching her with an adorably sleepy expression, soft and mussed and absolutely delicious.

“You checked in with Alcise?” It wasn’t really a question.

She nodded. He shifted, making more room for her on his side of the bed and pulling the covers back in invitation.

“I wouldn’t mind checking in again, too,” he informed her with a grin.

She rolled her eyes at the awful double entendre. Still, she moved closer, crawling across the mattress towards him.

He lost his warm smile as he lightly placed his hand on her waist, as if stilling her. “Everything’s OK?”

She smiled at his concern. “Yes. Nothing new, it seems. But also nothing bad.”

“We’ll count it as a win,” he decided.

She hummed in agreement, reaching up to push her fingers through his wild hair with soft delight. Her fingertips went wandering, lightly tracing over the crows’ feet around his eyes, which deepened as he smiled, trilling and pulling against the stubble along his jaw, swirling back up to trace the little line at corner of his mouth. They slipped further, her palm fully pressing against the warmth of his chest, where she could feel his heart beating, steady and assured. Three more hours of this, at least. A win indeed.

Definitely worth celebrating.

* * *

She was falling again. But her parachute wasn’t working. It was tangled around her legs, pulling her down faster. They were trying to kill her, and now even her parachute was helping them. She thrashed, trying to free herself.

Then, tightness. She couldn’t move, couldn’t move at all.

_It’s alright_. A voice. Eist’s. The warm feeling of trust, slowly sinking in. _You’re safe, it’s alright._

She slid further into the feeling of his arms around her, further into the waking world.

She was back in the flat. In bed with Eist. The sheets were tangled around her legs, and his arms were firmly around her torso, his front solidly pressed against her back as he gently rocked her, whispering soothingly in her ear. “It’s alright, Calanthe. It’s just a dream.”

She let out a long, soft exhale, melting in relief. He stilled as well. After a beat, he gently asked, “Y’okay?”

She hummed, nodding in confirmation. He kissed her ear, her neck, the curve of her shoulder. She pushed back, snuggling further against his chest. Her hand came up, reaching back to slip into his hair again, encouraging him to continue as she arched, grinding her bottom against his cock.

He made a low, soft growl at that. She continued. His hand came to her hip, pulling her in closer. Her body immediately kicked into higher gear at the contact, the feeling of him growing harder against her. She simply closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment, the gentle, almost lulling motion of their bodies rocking together, the comfort of his warmth against her skin.

She let her hand cover his, squeezing softly before she rolled onto her stomach, turning to look at him in the dim lighting. It was completely dark outside now, except for the various neon signs across the street, which outlined his body in reds and blues. She simply stared, mesmerized by the shadowy outline of his toned arms, his delightfully disheveled hair.

He reached over, pulling the covers away and letting a solid, warm hand brush away the tangles of hair still trailing down her back, before tracing the line of her spine, further down the curve of her arse.

She widened her legs in response, and he chuckled softly at her predictability.

She thought back to his quiet words, when he’d told her that the idea of too much was relative.

_For some, it’s exactly, perfectly enough_. There had been something soft and filled with wonder in his tone, when he’d said it.

She thought about being overwhelmed by him, at so many points during this entire encounter. In the moment, it had been too much. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t nearly enough—because she wanted more, even now. And somehow, that balanced out to feel exactly perfect.

That realization also terrified her. By now, the odd feelings should be gone. She should have all the answers to her questions by now (great gods above, they’d certainly found plenty of times and ways to explore those questions, from every angle), and her curiosity should be fully satisfied.

Currently, nothing was. She’d been right, during their time in the desert when she’d imagined sinking into him—he was the softest thing she’d ever had, and she couldn’t seem to ever have enough.

But it wasn’t curiosity or fascination that made her want more, she realized. It was…affection. Genuinely loving the sounds of delight he made, the feeling of his lips on her skin, the easy surrender of simply allowing herself to be open and honest in his presence, laid bare in more than just a physical sense. Genuinely loving _him_ , simply him.

She wanted to feel the quiet joy of him. Wanted to make him feel it, too. She reached for him, fluttering with delight at the way he responded immediately by moving closer. She lifted her hips higher, feeling a measure of amused affection for the way his gaze appreciatively followed the curve of her arse. She fought back a grin, “You know I won’t be able to sleep again until you do.”

“My dick puts you to sleep?” He feigned slight offense.

She laughed softly at that. Still, she drawled, “I rather meant the lack of it will keep me awake.”

He hummed, the sound sending a warm ripple down her spine. “Well, when you put it like that…”

She grinned as he moved and shifted over her. She lifted her hips again, widening her thighs as he settled between them. Then he was gently holding her hip, sliding into her, slowly pushing the breath out of her lungs as she turned and buried her face in the mattress.

She kept her eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of their bodies slowly building into a tempo, the warmth of his body above her radiating against the bare skin of her lower back, his breath lightly pushing across her shoulders and making her shiver.

Again, she marveled at how easy it was to relinquish the position of control, to simply let herself open and melt and just…enjoy, without needed to prove a point or worry over some kind of line being crossed.

The second they left this flat, Eist would refer to her by her rank and title without a hint of sarcasm or any less respect than before, she knew with all certainty. He wouldn’t reach for her, wouldn’t ever cross an improper line even in private, wouldn’t think he somehow had a claim on her body, just because he’d claimed it with his own, in some small way.

He’d been a risk—and yet, he was the safest choice she’d made in a long time, when it came to lovers.

He was picking up the pace, grinding her into the mattress. She let her fingers curl into the sheets and relished the feelings building inside her. Then suddenly, he was pulling away, sitting back on his heels and hauling her hips back up towards him, sliding into her again as his hands tightened their grip at her hipbones, pulling and pushing her with an intensity that made her head spin. She braced herself on her upper arms, dipping her head forward to laugh breathlessly.

Yes, he might be flipping her around like a damn ragdoll now, but she felt absolutely secure in the knowledge that his understanding of her power and position were entirely in-tact. He wasn’t taking—he was giving, giving her exactly what she wanted, with a kind of committed ferocity that left her with zero doubt about the level of affection and admiration he held for her.

The alarm on her phone buzzed, and they both stopped, glancing over at the bedside table.

“Ignore it,” she prompted, pushing her arms further into the mattress to lift her hips some more.

“Calanthe—”

“ _Ignore it_.”

He obeyed, quickly refinding a rhythm that had her coiling with tension again. She nearly cried with relief. She needed to keep feeling this, to pull apart another layer of understanding—even more so than she needed the physical release.

The phone kept buzzing. She shut her eyes and dipped her head. _Ignore it,_ she told herself. _Just a little longer, ignore it._

Eist gave a frustrated growl at the continued reminder, and heaven help her, it sent another wave of heat right through her. She thought of his first night at the palace. How she’d imagined pinning his wrists down, when they’d flexed in unvoiced anger at her accusations.

She knew how that felt now. To sit atop him and hold him down, wrists pinned beneath her hands as she took exactly what she wanted. She’d done just that, on this very mattress.

That had been the previous round, after her last check in with Alcise. He’d been soft and adorable, skin still sleepy warm. She’d held him down and taken him softly, enjoying a slower pace and a more playful air. He’d gladly let her.

Her body began to tighten at the memory.

_My feelings wouldn’t be anything more or less than they were before,_ he’d promised, in the final moments before things truly devolved. And even now, she knew it was utterly true.

That was a novelty, too. Sex and love were hardly ever entwined, in Calanthe’s world. She’d liked to think that they had been, in the beginning with Roegner. But now she wasn’t so sure—it had felt a bit like this, on her part, but she’d never felt like his levels of affection were quite matched to hers. At the time, she’d told herself that he simply had a different way of expressing love. Now she wondered if he had any love to express at all. Because now she _knew_ what it felt like—she could _feel_ it, in the press of Eist’s fingertips, the fervor of his thrusts, the sounds of delight he made when she tightened in response. She could feel it, in the ways he touched her afterwards, the softness of his voice and the easy contented warmth radiating off him in waves, the little reverent kisses he left, on her jaw, her cheek, her shoulder, wherever he could reach at the time.

This was sex, obviously. And this was love, too. This was…even. Balanced. Too much, together.

That was also a problem, she realized. She wasn’t the only one in love. She wasn’t the only one completely too far gone, hopelessly, helplessly past the point of no return. When he’d first confessed his feelings towards her, that night in her office, she’d assumed that he merely was…enamored. Charmed by a version of herself that didn’t really exist. Now she knew beyond all doubt that he’d seen her more clearly than most people had, her entire life. He’d seen her, completely, despite the veil she’d tried to keep between them—and he was still here, still loving her with such ardent delight.

Her climax took her by surprise, breathless and wide-eyed and shaking.

She was still shaking, when she finally reached for the phone, finally turning off the alarm that had been blaring the whole time.

And she was trembling again, when she came back to him, after her phone call. Smiled softly in reassurance, told him that nothing new had developed yet. Reminded herself that she trusted him, trusted his ability to handle this, without her coddling or overprotecting him. Pushed him back onto the mattress, nipped her way over nearly every inch of his skin, closing her eyes and committing as much to memory as possible. Enjoyed the taste of herself on his cock, the way his hands gripped her hair as she let her tongue show all the affection that it couldn’t quite express verbally. Took him again, pressing her hands into his chest as she watched his beautifully flushed face staring back up at her. Relished the feeling of him coming undone inside her, one last time. Pulled him closer and guided his cheek to her chest, where he fell asleep.

She trusted him. But she had absolutely never trusted herself. With good reason.

* * *

Eist woke up feeling odd. After a few seconds, he realized the reason: Calanthe wasn’t nestled into his side. Was it check-in time again, already?

He lightly ran his hand over the space she’d been, before. The sheets were cold. His hand reached the pillow and there was an odd sound.

He opened his eyes. It was early morning, just before dawn. He’d slept longer than he’d realized.

He rolled over to inspect the source of the odd noise.

A note, left on her pillow. And the necklace she’d worn to the hospital, the one she’d tucked into her bag during their escape back to the flat.

_Already back_. It read _. Call for a car when you’re ready._

She’d left him here. She’d left, on her own, less than twenty-four hours after an assassination attempt. Honestly, he wasn’t sure which bothered him more.

He gently took the note and the necklace, wandering into the open living space.

His clothes were neatly arranged atop the couch. Hers were gone, alone with the black duffel, unsurprisingly. He glanced in the kitchen. Everything, including the first aid kit, had been put away.

She hadn’t even thrown her shredded stocking away in any of the bins (yes, he checked, like a fucking madman).

She hadn’t left a single trace of her existence in this flat.

Well _almost_. He glanced down at the necklace in his hands.

Sapphires. Beautifully set in diamonds. A single setting could feed a family in Metinna for years, he mused—and there were multiple.

Suddenly, he understood.

His silence had just been bought. She’d genuinely assumed that his loyalty couldn’t be guaranteed, without some kind of gain on his part.

He didn’t know whether to feel insulted, or to simply pity the woman.

He found his phone and finally turned it on again—per Hochebuz protocol, he’d kept it off for nearly eighteen hours straight now (again, he wondered exactly when she left, just how many hours he’d gotten to be with her, to simply be with her).

It immediately began buzzing with notification after notification. A few texts from Mousesack. More than a few from Tissaia, growing increasingly worried.

A voicemail, in which she threatened him bodily harm if he didn’t call, as soon as possible.

One from Sibba, too _. I…I just saw the news…Call me, Eist, tell me you’re safe._

He tried to prioritize. Called Sibba first. Reassured her that he was alright. He felt a pang of guilt—it wasn’t even four o’clock in the morning over there, and yet she’d sounded wide awake when she’d answered. Like she hadn’t slept at all.

“And the queen?” She asked, voice lined with genuine concern. “Calanthe is truly alright?”

She knew how spin doctors worked. Knew that press conferences rarely gave the truth of the matter, in these situations.

His heart ached at the question. Because did he know, truly? “She’s alright. She’s back at the palace, safe and sound.”

“And where are you?”

“I’m…at my rental flat. I needed some time to clear my head.” Not entirely untrue.

She obviously disapproved of his choice, but knew better than to argue. Instead, she merely said, “I’ll let Bran know. He’s been worried.”

About his brother or his best political ally? Eist wondered sourly. He was able to stop himself from voicing the thought aloud, thankfully.

Instead, he merely said his goodbyes and called Mousesack next.

“So she really didn’t just murder you and dump your body in the river,” he answered in a wry tone.

Eist huffed at that. _She did murder me, a dozen times over, in the best of ways—and now apparently she’s cut out my heart and left it on the pillowcase_.

“So she’s already back at the palace, then?” Eist surmised.

“Been back for hours, apparently,” his friend returned softly. There was something almost-regretful in his tone. “Are you on your way back, too?”

“Soon,” Eist promised. He’d tossed his clothes in the wash, during his phone call with Sibba, so he’d been here for a while longer, waiting for them to finish and then dry. Might as well take his time, seeing as he was dead-certain that Calanthe would stay firmly out of his sight for as long as possible. “I need to call Tissaia and get my ass kicked.”

Mousesack chuckled. “I’ve already spoken to her. She was pretty upset.”

“Yeah, I’ve gotten a voicemail and some strongly-worded texts.”

“Wanna hear something interesting?”

“I’m a journalist, Mousesack. Of course I do.”

“When I was on the phone with her, I heard a familiar voice in the background. Yennefer.”

“Vengerberg?” Eist blinked at that. “Are they a thing again?”

“Dunno if they ever actually were a thing to begin with,” Mousesack returned. Eist could practically hear his slight shrug. “But it makes you wonder what’s brought her back, after all this time.”

“And after all the damn drama,” Eist added. Yennefer had been a solid enough reporter, but as a person, highly unstable. She got upset and things got out of hand, quite quickly. He remembered unfortunately witnessing a few of her screaming matches with Tissaia. It had always mystified him—Tissaia would have thrown anyone else out on their ass within five seconds of such shenanigans, and they’ve have just about that much time to pack their shit and leave for good. But with Yennefer, she’d always just…endured.

One of the reasons he and De Vries got on so well was that they never got involved in each other’s personal lives. He planned on keeping it that way (besides, he was certainly living in a glass house now).

So he merely shrugged, assured Mousesack that he’d be back within a few hours, once his clothes were done washing and drying, and ended the call.

Then he summoned his strength to call his editor.

“What the motherfucking hell, Tuirseach.”

“Don’t even. I already talked to Mousesack—”

“I’m sorry, you called _him_ first?”

“I called my sister first, actually. I called him second.”

“I don’t think you’re winning the argument in the way that you think,” she drawled.

He chuckled softly at that. Then offered, “I’m sorry. I’m sure Mousesack explained.”

“He did. Still. I was expecting to hear from you before now.”

“You know I love to keep you on your toes. Keeps you sharp.”

“I’m sharp enough, I promise you that.”

He hummed in agreement.

Her tone shifted, “You’re really alright?”

“I am,” he promised. Not entirely true, but also not entirely a lie.

There was a light commotion on the other end of the line. He distinctly heard Yennefer’s voice.

Tissaia spoke quickly, “I’m glad you’re alright, Tuirseach. We’ll talk again soon. Tonight. Usual time.”

Just before she hung up, Eist heard Yennefer ask, quite clearly: _Does he know?_

* * *

**Sixteen Hours Earlier.**

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

Tissaia rubbed her forehead, trying not to scream. She looked down at the coffee in her hand—Yennefer had offered her a drink this time, which had seemed like progress—and tried to steel herself as she tried again.

“Yes, a picture is worth a thousand words—but some words are _subjective_. And the truth is not.”

“Interesting. Because you and I looked at the same picture and came up with the same idea,” Yennefer crossed her arms over her chest. Tissaia was seated at the kitchen island, with Yennefer standing on the other side, like it was some kind of battlement between them. A bit like old times, arguing over Tissaia’s desk in her office.

She’d already refused to tell Tissaia where she’d gotten the photos. Had refused to say whether there were more copies—or more detailed and damning photos (though Tissaia doubted the last measure—if she’d had something more substantial, Yennefer definitely would have thrown it in her face by now).

“Yes, but just because we both assume—”

“What does that infamous gut of yours say?” Yennefer challenged. “C’mon, De Vries. World’s Most Fascinating Woman—”

“Continent,” Tissaia corrected, before she could truly think about it. “The _Continent’s_ Most Fascinating Woman.”

Yennefer flushed at that, for some reason. Then she pressed her lips into a thin line and merely looked at Tissaia for a beat.

For some reason, Tissaia didn’t feel fascinating at all. She felt like a failure, when Yennefer looked at her like that.

Still, she ducked her head and sighed—and repeated, for what must have been the millionth time, over the course of their relationship: “Gut feelings are not a viable source. Intuition and instinct are both shaped by our past experiences, which hold inherent biases—”

“You don’t even _believe_ your own bullshit.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “I honestly don’t know if that’s better or worse. Either way, it’s just _sad_.”

Tissaia blinked at that, feeling it as keenly as a physical slap to the face.

Yennefer just waited, as righteous and unrelenting as ever.

“Do you know why I accepted the editor position?” Tissaia asked quietly.

“Power, prestige, and a pay raise?” Yennefer guessed with a slow arch of her brow.

“Lovely use of alliteration there, dear, but no.” Tissaia would not let this girl rattle her, not again. “I accepted the editor position because I loved being a journalist. I love being around journalists. I love what we do, what we stand for, how we change the world and show its beauties and its tragedies. And when you love something, you do everything you can to ensure that it _remains_ the thing you love—you try to make it better, to maintain the good while continuing to work on the bad.”

Yennefer simply stared at her, a little surprised.

Tissaia continued, “I became an editor to better protect my fellow journalists—and sometimes, that means protecting them from themselves.”

“Is that what you called it?” Yennefer’s voice was low, almost hurt. “When you blocked my story, all those years ago—did you think you were protecting me from myself?”

“I was protecting you from the consequences of your actions,” Tissaia clarified. “You wanted to publish an article with some very big, highly unsubstantiated claims. An article that would have put a target on your back—a target placed there by some very powerful people with more than enough means to seek retribution.”

Yennefer blinked, shifted a little.

“Their spin doctors and press agents would have torn you to shreds. Your credibility as a journalist would have been ruined forever. And honestly, you’d be lucky if it stopped there.” Tissaia lifted her eyebrows slightly. “Please remember that I didn’t get named The Continent’s Most Fascinating Woman for covering tea parties and celebrity gossip, Yennefer. I did my fair share of exposés and political take-downs. I have sat with war criminals and played cards with mob bosses, and I have smiled in the faces of corrupt CEOs as they offered thinly-veiled threats over glasses of champagne. I have had death threats and effigies burning outside my house—I _know_ how these people play, and just how dirty they’re willing to get to win.”

“Why…” Yennefer swallowed hard, then tried again. “Why didn’t you just tell me all this, before?”

Tissaia wanted to laugh, suddenly. “Yennefer—when did you ever give me enough time to say these things?”

The younger woman flushed at the question. Tissaia felt a wave of pity for her.

Quietly, she admitted, “And…I didn’t have the words, always. I’ve just…had a lot of time to think about what I wish I would have said, in those moments. I’ve had a lot of time to edit my thoughts, as it were.”

Yennefer felt her throat tighten at the confession. So Tissaia _had_ thought of her, over the years—often enough to craft a perfect response, even if it came far too late. She’d spent time thinking of things she could have said to make Yennefer understand, to perhaps make her stay. It meant more to Yennefer than she ever could have imagined.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I’m sorry I didn’t…give you the time, or the…stillness or whatever else…to find those words.”

Tissaia looked up at her again, eyes soft and glimmering with the light sheen of tears. “It’s done now, Yennefer. We survive, we move on. Besides, you seem to be doing what you love still. That’s what counts.”

_I don’t love this_ , Yennefer wanted to retort. _Little grubby stories about little grubby men and women who get too greedy—it exposes crimes but it doesn’t change a damn thing. Another day, another exposé, and a week later, it’s another grubby politician committing the same grubby crime._

Instead, she merely said, “Yeah. I suppose that’s what counts.”

Tissaia’s phone buzzed. She glanced down, and immediately frowned. She motioned over to the TV on the kitchen counter. “Turn it on. A Cintran news channel, if you can.”

Yennefer moved across the kitchen, quickly obeying.

_“…attack on the Queen less than an hour ago—at this time, we do not….”_

Yennefer turned back to Tissaia, whose face was drawn and pale.

“Eist,” she said simply.

“And Mousesack,” Tissaia added. She hadn’t blinked. Then, with a quick shake of her head, she moved into action, dialing a number on her phone. The low curse that slipped form her lips informed Yennefer that whomever she’d called didn’t answer. She repeated the action.

This time, she melted in relief. “Tell you’re alright.”

She was listening intently, eyebrows lifting and quirking and furrowing as she processed whatever information she was receiving. Yennefer watched, a bit transfixed by all the emotions and expressions fluttering across the older woman’s face.

Finally, the call ended.

“They’re safe,” she decreed. Yennefer turned her attention to her own phone, pulling up a few more news releases.

They spent the next two hours focused on the unfolding story. Tissaia kept in contact with Mousesack, but still hadn’t received any word from Eist. Yennefer could tell that the silence was bothering her.

She wondered how many times Tissaia had been in this situation before. Watching an event unfold, knowing one of her journalists was at the center of it—and possibly injured, or worse.

She felt the urge to apologize again—this time for ever doubting that Tissaia had ever wanted anything but her highest good, for ever questioning her commitment to the journalists under her purview.

She glanced at the TV again. By now, the news cycle was refreshing, and new content was being dragged up and added to the stories.

The reporter drawled on, “Just last week, Princess Pavetta began the first of many public appearances, a rare change in Cintran Royal practice…”

A photo appeared on the screen. It was Pavetta, standing beside Duny in front of the Temple of Modron.

The screen panned in on the photo, until it was just Pavetta. Smiling, squinting slightly from the bright summer sun, which shone on her almost-white hair.

Something prickled at the back of Yennefer’s memory. Something that had pulled before, in an entirely different setting. The hair, the shape of the chin…

Geralt. The realization bolted through her like lightning. She turned back to Tissaia, who looked up a bit distractedly from her phone.

It took her half a second to read Yennefer’s expression.

“Oh my gods,” Yennefer breathed.

Tissaia sat a little straighter, moving slowly, far too cautiously. Yennefer’s gut clenched in absolute certainty.

Tissaia knew. She’d always known. That was why she’d come all this way.

It was more than just an affair. It was a bastard princess—and a decades-long plot to cover it all up.


	26. Confessions and Compromises

**The Kings Palace, Temeria.**

Calanthe gave a soft sigh of contentment as Geralt collapsed onto the mattress beside her. She’d already gotten what she’d needed from this little exchange several minutes ago, but she’d been more than happy to oblige his needs for satisfaction as well.

She took a few beats to look up at the ceiling, listening to his breathing slowly return to normal.

This was good, she decided. Like before her marriage. No odd feelings afterwards. Just…release and relief, and a clearer head.

“Right, then.” She sat up, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. She glanced around, trying to remember where all of her clothing had gone.

She stiffened at the light brush of his fingertips against her spine. Quietly, she prompted, “Nothing changes, remember?”

He withdrew with a soft huff.

Still, he’d agreed to the idea, easily enough—granted, he might have been a little caught up in the heat of the moment (and gods above was there _a lot_ of heat in that moment, she could admit).

But the moment had passed. The flame had been thoroughly and satisfyingly put out.

Now Calanthe needed to find her bra. She squinted slightly, trying to remember at what point, exactly, it had been taken off.

“Top of the dresser,” Geralt’s low voice supplied. She glanced over to see that her bra was, indeed, strew across the surface.

“Thank you.” She pushed off the bed, moving towards it. She put it back on, looking around for the next item of clothing.

Geralt merely sat up in bed, watching her with an expression that was both curious and detached. “You’re…alright?”

She hummed, stepping into her underwear. “Quite.”

She offered a small grin of reassurance. His own mouth twitched in an amused smirk in response.

“And…you are, as well?” She ventured, feeling the first ripple of concern. He was a good personal guard; she’d hate to lose him over this.

“Quite,” he returned, mimicking her tone.

Well, his snarky little attitude was still in-tact, she noted. She took it as a good sign. She found her sweater and slipped it over her head. Temeria was farther north, and a helluva lot colder than Cintra in the winter. She was glad this state visit was only three days—and done, as of tomorrow morning.

“Thirty-two,” she announced, taking a beat to watch his reaction.

He grimaced. “Ouch.”

She chuckled softly. This was the game they played, sometimes. He refused to give his age, so she continuously guessed it.

Granted, she could look at his personnel file, easily enough. But that wasn’t the point of the game.

She pressed her lips together and studied him again. It was hard to gauge his age, based on looks alone. And his serious personality didn't help.

She knew how misleading looks and tone could be. She was just a few months away from her twenty-fourth birthday, but there were times that she still looked like an eighteen-year-old, far too baby-faced for the position she currently held. And she certainly had learned to assume the gravitas and somber tone of someone far older than her actual age—both a blessing and a curse of being forced into her royal role at such a young age.

Geralt had to be slightly older, given his current position. He wouldn’t have reached this upper echelon of security work, without years of training and experience.

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’ve guessed that before.”

“I’ve guessed every age from eighteen to forty-eight before,” she pointed out.

“Perhaps you should be more exact,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

She grabbed her pants and shimmied into them. “Alright then. Twenty-seven years and six months.”

He hummed at that. She felt it was a good sign.

However, she left it there. Instead, she scooped up his clothes as well and tossed them onto the bed.

“I can’t possibly walk through these halls, unescorted,” she reminded him, widening her eyes to play up the helpless damsel air. He merely huffed at that. After all, he knew better than most just how capable she was of defending herself. He’d been her sparring partner at her self-defense lessons, twice a week for a few weeks now.

She waited by the door while he dressed, making sure her clothing and hair were fully in-place once more. 

She smiled to herself. This had been exactly what she’d needed. There had been an immediate fascination on her part, from the moment Geralt Rivia had walked into her office, on his first day of work. He was good looking, but more importantly, a puzzle that she couldn’t immediately solve. He wasn’t Cintran by birth, and he almost seemed to regret joining her security team. It had been fascinating, a novelty after years of being surrounded with guards who would gladly take a bullet for queen and country.

She’d been unable to stop herself from constantly poking at his gruff exterior and world-weary air. Whenever he did respond with more than monosyllabic replies, she was always delighted to find sharp snark and equally cutting wit. And sometimes, in the quiet moments between political storms, he was surprisingly philosophical. He’d given his own unique form of pep talks, more than once—from anyone else, it’d feel like having her arse handed to her, but somehow, it felt like he’d simply recognized that she could do better, be better, and he was pushing her to recognize it, too. Again, his directness was a refreshing novelty.

She’d come to prefer him as one of her constant guards, as well as one of her main sparring partners during her own self-defense lessons—to the point that Roegner had begun to make disgusting little comments about just how close she kept her hulking Lyrian protector, just how much she loved rolling around the sparring mat with him. It rankled, at first. Because they’d been married for nearly two years and she’d never even considered being unfaithful, even during the harder times.

Naturally, she’d continued, just to make Roegner jealous. It was the only time her husband showed more than a passing interest in her, and she couldn’t help herself. It had brought him back into her bed again, and a new level of passion to their marriage ( _passion_ , she told herself, that was why he held her so tightly when he took her, why he made such a point of taking her, every night, even if they’d spent the day bickering and barely able to stand each other’s presence, why he seemed gripped by an almost-frenetic need to be with her, as if maybe that was the only way he could express his love for her, through physical contact).

He’d withdrawn himself for a while, the last time they’d argued over the issue of children. She’d explained that there would be no children for another five years at least. He’d refused to talk to her for nearly two weeks. It was longer than that before he actually returned to sharing a bed with her. By then, she’d found that she missed him. Missed the comfort of having someone beside her. Missed having someone to talk to, while lying in the darkness. Missed…simply not being alone.

Then, suddenly, a switch was flipped. Every night, he was with her (sometimes, she’d rather wished he wasn’t, and immediately felt guilty for wishing so). It coincided around the time of Geralt’s addition to her security detail, and given the start of Roegner’s comments shortly later, she assumed the two points were connected.

Connected or not, she’d finally fulfilled all of Roegner’s prophecies over what would happen between her and her broody bodyguard, if given the chance. She'd traveled alone to visit Foltest for a trade agreement signing, and after two days of mildly considering the possibility, she'd pushed herself to action.

She couldn’t blame the weak Temerian wine, or the chemistry between them, or even her need to score a point against her husband. She’d just…wondered. She’d pushed herself into playing up the attraction, to piss off Roegner, and it had become a real thing. The final straw had been having him join her self-defense lessons a few weeks ago. She’d pinned him down in various chokeholds during their spars, had been tossed and held down by him as well, with a ferocity that had been absolutely intriguing. She’d needed to know if Geralt was any different, in a more intimate setting. The urge to know, coupled with the ability to access that knowledge, collided into a strange and satisfying encounter.

He was…kinder. Gentler. But still somehow just as brusque. Unlike Roegner, he hadn’t held her down, or held her back. She’d taken control and kept it, for the most part.

In a way, he’d been exactly as expected.

Now he moved up quietly behind her, and she felt the sensation of his hand, hovering over the small of her back for a brief second before retreating. Yes, he remembered the promise of _nothing changes_ , and he was trying to follow it.

 _Good_ , she thought. _This is good. Nothing has changed, not really._

With a wicked grin, she decided that whenever she returned to Cintra, to her own bed and her husband’s grasp, she’d close her eyes and think of this night. It had been a bit reckless of her, assuring Geralt that they didn’t need a condom (she was on the pill, after all)—and she’d taken a thrill in feeling him come inside her, in letting him claim her in a way that only Roegner should.

It was a delightful, devious secret. She’d let Roegner have his way, as usual, and the whole time, she could smile to herself, knowing that despite his efforts to somehow physically woo his way back into her good graces, the thing he’d feared had already happened, partially _because_ of him.

It was a victory, in a way, she decided. A rather memorable one.

She had no idea just how memorable it would become.

* * *

**Twenty-One Years and Nine Months Later**

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Calanthe stepped out of the shower, grabbing the towel on the hook beside the glass door and gingerly patting herself dry. She’d showered, at the flat, but she’d rolled across the mattress so many times with Eist afterwards—she couldn’t walk into her office, still smelling of him. Couldn’t go see Pavetta, who was currently still sleeping, thank the gods, with the weight of his lips and the warmth of his touch still hovering on her skin.

Her thighs were a bit of a mess. A little chafed, thanks to Eist’s stubble and his mouth’s multiple excursions between her legs. The memory stirred warmth in her hips again and she closed her eyes against it. _Woman, your body has acted like a hormonal teenager long enough, stop_.

The bandage on her knee needed to be changed again. The water of the shower had helped loosen it considerably, but she still found a light prick of tears in her eyes as she gingerly removed it, tossing it in the waste bin.

But it wasn’t the bandage that hurt, she realized.

It was the realization that, for the first time, she’d have to tend to it herself—now and every time after, she wouldn’t have the comfort of Eist’s gentle attentions.

The tight sadness in her chest warred with the still-coiling heat in her hips. She wrapped herself fully in her towel and sat on the marble floor.

This was so close to Geralt. The way she’d constantly toed the line, telling herself that it was just for fun, just a game, nothing would actually come of it. The way she’d lied to herself, the way she’d rationalized and denied every step closer.

Roegner had been delighted, when her morning sickness had first hit. She’d learned the truth of his betrayal, of exactly why he’d been so physically attentive. They’d been breeding, nothing more.

Now, particularly, she knew it was true. Perhaps for the first time ever, she knew that she truly understood the concept of _making love_ —whatever she’d done with her husband, it had never come close to what she’d experienced with Eist, over the course of the day they’d spent in the flat.

She’d forgiven Roegner, eventually. Around the time Pavetta turned three, she felt the urge for another child—she still wanted to be a mother, always had, even if her journey began earlier than she’d planned.

For that and that alone, she’d let him in again. Charted ovulations and cycles and took her temperature and quite gladly took him inside her, closing her eyes and praying for another baby.

Nearly two years passed. But no baby came. Tests, treatments…then the news.

Roegner couldn’t have children. Never had been able to.

Oh, the look on his face, when he’d realized. The sharp smack across her own, from his angry hand. She’d merely stood there, just as shocked (though part of her had always known, she’d realized, in some way, had almost always hoped, too). Then she’d quietly fixed him with a burning look, her lungs shaking and her throat smoldering as she growled fiercely enough to rip at her vocal chords, her voice still low and trembling with rage.

 _Touch me again, in any way, shape, or form—I will end you, you pathetic excuse for a man_.

That had been more effective than the punch she’d wanted to throw. He’d understood just how serious she was.

And he hadn’t touched her again. Ever, after that.

Geralt had still been a part of her security detail, though by then she’d already put more distance between them—he wasn’t constantly in her company, they no longer held sparring matches. She’d quietly told him the truth. His expression had flickered in pain and concern.

 _I have to leave_ , he’d informed her.

 _You’re abandoning us?_ She hadn’t been able to stop the words from slipping out. She’d felt weak, foolish, stupid beyond compare. She didn’t need him, she never had.

He’d merely pressed his lips into a thin line. _I can’t properly do my job, knowing this. I would…be too overwhelmed with concern. I’d end up coddling you, and the princess, too. And that’s a far greater cruelty than anything else I could do._

She didn’t need coddling. She never had.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, dipping her head forward. No, she didn’t need it—but it had felt nice, being taken care of, during her interlude with Eist.

Which reminded her—she hadn’t ever let another lover come inside her, ever again after that. She’d played it off with Eist yesterday, as if it wasn’t a big deal. She’d wanted it too much, wanted _him_ too much. But now the heat of the moment was past and reality was firmly back in place.

Her stomach clenched. How many times? How long ago, since the first?

She pushed herself to her feet, hands trembling as she opened a drawer in the bathroom vanity.

She checked the date on the box. Again, she generally didn’t have use for morning-after pills—she took birth control and had her men wear protection.

Still. Just in case. That’s why she kept them on hand, just in case. One could never be too careful—hadn’t she learned that lesson?

 _Apparently not_ , her inner voice mused. _Because here we are again, slightly different scene, same damn mistake._

Better safe than sorry. She popped a pill and turned on the sink, scooping a handful of water into her mouth to help wash it down.

She felt sick. She knew she was being ridiculous, letting anxiety get the better of her.

 _You knew you’d get this way_ , she reminded herself, slowly forcing herself to look up, to stare into the eyes of her own reflection. _You knew and you chose to do it anyways, you stupid, selfish girl. Twenty-one years, and you haven’t learned a fucking thing._

She merely nodded sadly in agreement. And she prayed to every god she could name that Eist didn’t feel an ounce of this same regret.

Except this wasn’t regret she felt, exactly. Even now, she’d gladly do the past eighteen hours all over again, exactly the same—except for the ending. Her only regret was that it ended.

And still, she prayed that he didn’t feel this, either.

She closed her eyes and wished. She hoped he wasn’t too upset, when he awoke to find her gone—but she couldn’t stand the idea of an actual goodbye, of the tears she’d surely shed, if she had to look him in the eye before walking out that door. Of the things she’d do, the ways she’d try to prolong the moment, the ways she’d ruined their agreement and break the promises she’d made. She hoped that he’d awakened feeling rested and relaxed and content. Hoped he’d somehow simply smiled and accepted what came next.

Her heart ached at the possibility that it would be just a difficult for him. Her own pain, she could deal with. His—utterly untenable.

No coddling, she reminded herself. He’d made his choice, just as surely as she’d made hers. They’d been aware of the terms, of the rules they had to follow, no matter how hard it seemed. They’d agreed.

He would be better at this than she was, she decided. A man like him? He'd definitely had flings and fleeting love affairs. And yes, he'd been so earnest, in all the things he'd said and done—but he seemed to be that earnest in everything he did, so perhaps it had just been her own foolish heart, coloring the words and actions with more meaning.

He was a deep man, everything he did had depth. _She_ was the shallow one, the one with the inability to have healthy emotional connections. The one who'd never learned how to properly express herself or how to touch anything without breaking it entirely. The one who always lied to herself, who didn't know herself well enough to save herself from her own emotional fallout. She shouldn't project her own flaws onto him. 

_You're absolved,_ she reminded herself, dipping her head a bit lower, almost into the sink basin entirely. Eist had told her that, and she believed him, believed he would hold to his word.

Her only responsibility was to follow through, on her own end.

And she would. She just needed to cry about it first.

* * *

**Sixteen Hours Earlier.**

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

“You knew.” Yennefer breathed, eyes wide with shock.

“Yennefer…” Tissaia was rising out of her seat, sliding slowly around the kitchen island, as if Yennefer were some kind of wild animal, to be approached with utmost caution.

“You _knew_ ,” Yennefer spat again. “That’s why you didn’t bat a fucking eye at the photos—because they were _nothing_ compared to the truth of the matter—”

“It’s not my truth to tell—”

“ _Your_ truth? The truth is simply the truth, Tissaia, isn’t that what you’re always banging on about?” Yennefer felt another flash of anger and confusion. All this time, she thought she’d finally proven herself to this woman—only to realize Tissaia had been patronizing her, playing along, _indulging_ her, like a child.

“Yes, the truth is simply the truth.” Tissaia moved closer, holding her hands out towards her. “But it isn’t always our responsibility to tell it. Some truths are better left untold—”

“Tissaia, this is a _major_ political revelation—”

“And what fucking good does it serve?” Tissaia snapped back, smacking her hands against the tops of her thighs.

Her sudden vehemence startled Yennefer, who fell silent, merely staring back in open-mouthed shock.

“Great fucking Mother of the World,” Tissaia rubbed her forehead angrily, turning away for a beat. She looked back at Yennefer. “You want to accuse me of losing all integrity, but tell me, what is honorable about using someone’s past mistakes against them? What integrity can be found in destroying an innocent young girl’s _entire_ life? Sure, you’ll get yourself some award or another out of it, a good bit of prestige and some definite career mileage—but tell me how it falls in line with your oh-so-pristine and delicate morals, Vengerberg?”

She waited for a heavy, ugly beat, simply watching Yennefer.

Quietly, she added, in a hoarse whisper, “Don’t be like me, Yennefer. You’re better than that. Don’t…choose that path.”

Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. She looked so small and broken, Yennefer wanted to cry.

“What do you mean?” Yennefer asked gently, already afraid of the answer.

Tissaia blinked. The tears disappeared. She tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth tightening in a grimmer expression. “Why do you think Calanthe reached out to my publication, when it came time to grant a story? Out of sheer admiration?”

The gears were whirring. It hadn’t been a propaganda piece—it had been a promise, finally fulfilled. A price paid.

Tissaia nodded slowly, “You’ve figured it all out now, my dear. I made a deal with a desperate woman, dangling her life’s most damaging secret over her head in exchange for a good story. So you were right—there _is_ scandal and corruption, but not in the way you originally thought.”

“You didn’t,” Yennefer blinked. “You _couldn’t_ have—”

Tissaia smiled mirthlessly.

Yennefer’s stomach fell like a stone. No, it couldn’t be. _Tissaia_ couldn’t be—she was, despite it all, still an idol to Yennefer, and the idea that she was so flawed, so close to that awful paparazzo Dom Diria, ached.

“Do you want to hear the full story?” There was an edge of certainty in Tissaia’s expression.

Of course she did. She had to know—she had to find the moment where she could understand, where she could make sense of everything that had just exploded inside her brain.

“Yes,” she said simply.

Tissaia’s expression settled into something firmer. “Then destroy those fucking photos and take down the teaser on Truth Seeker International.”

Yennefer felt the air softly leave her lungs. The bitch, she thought, a bit admiringly.

“Everyone has a price, Yennefer,” her former editor informed her gently. “That’s mine.”

Yennefer took a beat to consider. What did she have to gain, by writing about the affair? It certainly wouldn’t elevate her career, using paparazzi photos and sensationalism. Why had she really pursued this line, in the first place? To get Tissaia’s attention, in some way. To…prove that unlike Tissaia, she hadn’t given away her morals for a byline.

Well, Tissaia was here, giving her full attention. And Tissaia herself was admitting that her morals were long gone.

 _What integrity can be found in destroying an innocent young girl’s entire life?_ Tissaia’s challenge echoed in her head again. It was more than just a young girl's life getting up-ended. It would be an entire nation.

Plus, Geralt would get caught up in the damage, Yennefer realized with a flash of chagrin. She’d realized that before, but with the added layer of paternity, it put far more scrutiny on him than she'd first imagined. For all their varied and unpleasant history, she couldn’t do that to him, she realized.

So her choice was made.

“Alright,” she agreed softly. Tissaia’s entire body sagged with relief. “I’ll…do it. And then you’ll tell me everything.”

Tissaia held her hands open with a wry air. “An all-access, no-holds barred pass at the great Tissaia de Vries.”

The mocking, self-loathing tone made tears spring to Yennefer’s eyes again. She didn’t like this version of Tissaia, not at all. For all the ways she’d wanted the woman to acknowledge that Yennefer was right, she’d never wanted it like this, never at this high a cost to Tissaia.

 _You idiot_ , she chided herself. _You never see the whole board when you play the game. You’re always so surprised when you get exactly what you wanted._

She pulled the little document shredder out of her closet and destroyed the photos, one by one.

Tissaia hovered nearby, watching but not getting too close, like some kind of regretful ghost. Yennerfer’s throat tightened with unshed tears again.

They sat side by side on Yennefer’s couch as Yennefer got on her laptop and deleted the article from the website.

“Happy?” Yennefer prompted, before she could consider her words.

Tissaia gave a flat hum. “I doubt I’m going to feel that way about any part of this, truth be told.”

Yennefer ducked her head, pressed her lips together.

Tissaia’s hand lightly rested over hers. “I’m not blaming you, Yennefer.”

She wished she could believe it.

Tissaia shifted away again, moving further back against the couch cushions and setting her hands in her lap with an unaffected air, as if merely chatting about the weather. “Alright. I’m assuming you want it from the top, yes?”

Yennefer merely glanced over, expression lined with cautious curiosity.

Tissaia smiled softly. _Ever a journalist, that one_. Not for the first time, she felt a pang of regret, a wish that she’d done more to make Yennefer stay, to help her reach her full potential.

“Fifteen years ago, I scored the opportunity of a lifetime, interviewing the queen on the tenth anniversary of her coronation. She was slightly more involved with the press in those days, but only barely. In fact, I can say with almost absolute certainty that my interview was the reason she shut out the press so vehemently afterwards. I was freelancing at the time; a friend at _The Cintran Correspondent_ called me in to do the interview. We all knew it was a bit of propaganda, and like you, I decided that I wouldn’t be swayed. I’d use the opportunity to my full advantage, shock the world with some stellar revelation that would earn me another award or accolade—didn’t matter which, I suppose. I just…wanted to prove that I could still live up to the hype. The problem was, I had bought into my own hype.”

She looked away for a beat, shaking her head sadly at that.

“So I went digging beforehand. I knew a fair share of the Cintran press corps in those days—I was all over the place back then, I knew someone in every press office on the continent. Naturally, we all talked amongst ourselves. Someone mentioned knowing someone with incriminating photos of the queen. I tracked him down—”

“Dom Diria,” Yennefer realized.

Tissaia frowned, “No, I don’t think that was his name. You have to remember, tabloids were a huge business at the time. Bigger than they are now. There were plenty of these types. Anyways, I came armed with my photos of her and her former security guard—and a pretty compelling idea of exactly why he was former, if what the photos insinuated were true. It was meant to be three days' worth of interviews. The first two were pleasant enough. I was getting as much background as I could before I played my hand.”

She huffed at that, at her own calculation. She’d thought she was so smooth, back then. Looking back, she wondered if Calanthe had sensed something in the air, had merely been waiting for her to finally reveal her “secret”.

“Like you, I saw a truth that needed to be exposed to the world. I wanted her to…be held accountable, in some way. Not for the infidelity—I don’t fucking care what anyone does, in that regard. But…for trying to buy the goodwill of her people through a fluffy story, rather than simply connecting with them. For being prideful enough to think that no one could see through the farce. For...I don’t know. I just knew that there was a lie happening, and it seemed wrong to let it stand.” Tissaia looked down at her hands. “So on the final day, I set the photos down in front of her. I watched the expression shift on her face, and I knew I had her.”

Tissaia leaned further back, lightly ghosting her hand over her own face. As if hiding from Yennefer, in some small way.

“What changed your mind?” Yennefer asked delicately.

“Pavetta,” she answered.

Tissaia thought back to the moment. The little blonde pixie zipping into the room, throwing herself onto her mother’s lap. Calanthe’s immediate look of desperation. The two seconds it took for Tissaia to scoop up the photos—and realize the resemblance between the man in those photos and the little girl currently smiling up at her mother with the sweetest expression of pure joy and delight. The way Calanthe’s hand slipped around Pavetta’s head, pulling her closer, almost shielding her. Those big brown eyes staring at her, screaming for mercy—not for herself, but for her daughter.

“I met her, accidentally,” Tissaia explained. “That’s when I realized that the affair was just the tip of the iceberg. It was a once-in-a-lifetime story…but it would have also destabilized an entire royal line and ruined a child’s life forever. It also made me realize—even if it had been just an affair, how would that have affected the princess? How would it have changed her relationship with her mother? And was it worth the risk? What was the point, of telling the truth, when it helped no one and hurt so many?”

She turned to look back at Yennefer, exhausted and hopeful at the same time. Like she wanted absolution, some kind of confirmation that, in the end, she’d done the right thing.

Yennefer blinked, swallowed thickly, then nodded.

Tissaia nodded as well. Then she ducked her head and finished, “Anyways, once the princess left the room again, Calanthe broke it down to brass tacks—she’d pay any price I set, to ensure my silence.”

“And what was your price, exactly?” Yennefer had a pretty solid idea, but she wanted to know the exactitude of it.

Tissaia smiled without warmth or amusement. “I was still a reporter, Vengerberg. I made a deal that only a reporter would make—my silence, in exchange for some bigger, better story, whenever it arose. Over the years, I…realized the cruelty I created, and tried to back out of the agreement—not to reveal what I knew, but just to not have the woman feel beholden. But Calanthe of Cintra is a woman of her word, and she refused to break the deal we’d set. She wanted to pay—to have us both walk away even, without her owing me anything anymore, I suppose.”

Yennefer hummed at that. She could understand the feeling.

“So here we are.” Tissaia motioned towards the world around them. She gave a heavy sigh, as if signing her confession.

“Here we are,” Yennefer agreed softly, sitting further back against the couch as well.

A beat passed.

“Should we go get drunk?” Tissaia asked.

Yennefer considered the question. Then, she replied, “I really think there’s no other option, at this point.”

* * *

Yennefer didn’t want to take Tissaia to her usual haunt, afraid it might be too dingy, too pedestrian—but Tissaia had motioned down to her jeans and linen button down and said she just wanted somewhere dark and too loud to think.

So _The Rambler_ it was, then. The dark interior, with its heavy oak tables and sticky black leather booths, made Tissaia smile in appreciation.

“Well done, Vengerberg,” she decreed. She slid her wallet from her purse and pulled out a credit card to start a tab.

Yennefer held out a hand to stop her. "I think I should buy."

Tissaia looked up at her with a wry smile. “Yes, I suppose you should.”

Something about the angle and lighting made her seem tiny and adorable. It was disconcerting, but Yennefer definitely preferred it over the sad, self-loathing thing that had sat on her couch forty-five minutes earlier.

They got their first round of drinks and slid into a booth in the back, further away from the few patrons who were here, so early in the evening. Originally, they started at opposite sides of the table, but as the evening wore on and the music got louder, Tissaia eventually slid around to join Yennefer on the other side. They still had to lean in and practically shout to be heard over the din.

Tissaia didn’t want to talk about it, anymore. Yennefer supposed she couldn’t blame her. So instead, they talked about Yennefer’s latest piece on the Lyrian chancellor and the Verdenian contractors. Tissaia asked questions, deep and searching, still able to keep track of all the moving parts despite her second and third drinks.

It was a bit like being one of her journalists again, Yennefer thought. Though slightly more relaxed.

Tissaia smiled, lifted her glass and decreed, “You’ve done well.”

Yennefer accepted the compliment, raising her own drink to clink against Tissaia’s.

“Gods, I wish you’d come work for me again,” Tissaia admitted. “You’re a good journalist. I miss that.”

Yennefer blinked at that, trying to calculate just how drunk the woman was. “Surely you don’t miss all the knock-down-drag-outs that went along with it.”

Tissaia hummed at that. She shrugged, “Well, I got a rather nice mug out of it. So it wasn’t all bad.”

Yennefer felt herself blushing. So Tissaia had noticed her gift. Had appreciated it.

Now Tissaia glanced over at her again, gaze flicking over her in appraisal. “You’re calmer now, Yennefer. Older, wiser. And now…now I’ve found a better way to reach you, to…communicate with you in the way that you actually understand—”

“Oh, because I was too dense before—”

“No, no, no, no.” Tissaia shook her head quickly, closing her eyes softly, as if maybe that was a bit too much movement for her tipsy brain. “It’s not your fault—it was mine. Everyone communicates and comprehends differently. That’s part of the challenge of being editor, too. Not only learning your writers’ voices, to best cultivate them and help them express their ideas fully—but also understanding how to communicate your _own_ ideas, so that they best comprehend them.”

“Well, I can’t let you take all of the blame,” Yennefer admitted. “I think, perhaps—I wasn’t always really trying to understand. I was…angry, all the time.”

Tissaia looked at her curiously, then gently prompted, “Angry at…?”

“At you, a bit,” Yennefer confessed. She felt a wave of chagrin for the flicker of hurt in Tissaia’s expression (a cat, she looked like a cat, a sad little cat, Yennefer thought), but she continued. Tissaia had been so honest with her, over the past several hours. She deserved the same courtesy in return. “I just—I studied all your work, at university. The night you were inducted into the Journalism Hall of Fame, my friends and I went out to celebrate. _That’s going to be us someday_ , we promised ourselves. You were…mythic. I was over the moon, when I got the job at _The Post_. A chance to be guided by the great Tissaia de Vries? I couldn’t believe my luck.”

Tissaia’s expression tightened. “And then I failed you.”

Yennefer suddenly felt the urge to cry. “No, I don’t—I mean, I _did_ think that, at the time. But now…I think, more than anything, I was so angry at constantly failing myself.”

Tissaia reached out, placing her hand over Yennefer’s. It was comforting and weighted and emboldening. 

“I just—I wanted to be your protégé,” Yennefer confessed. “And yet…I just couldn’t seem to do anything right.”

Tissaia tightened her grip. She waited a beat, until Yennefer looked back up at her.

“Then I really did fail you,” she said, blinking back tears. “Because I didn’t…I didn’t show you that I _was_ proud of you and the work you did, that you were far from failing, ever, Yennefer. I didn’t…nurture you properly.”

Yennefer scoffed a bit at that. “Nurture? Tissaia, you were never my mother.”

Something shifted in the woman’s expression.

“No,” she agreed. “I was never that.”

Her gaze flickered, briefly, so briefly that Yennefer swore she almost imagined it—right down to Yennefer’s mouth.

Then she sat back, taking a sip of her drink. “Perhaps we’ll call it a draw. We both fucked up, end of.”

Yennefer pushed back the odd tightness in her throat. “Sounds like the perfect compromise.”

She lifted her glass. Tissaia clinked her against it with a wry smile.

“My, my, Vengerberg. You, compromising? There might be hope for us yet.”


	27. An Exchange

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Eist rubbed the back of his neck, taking a second to roll his shoulders. It was late afternoon; he’d been back for hours now. He’d sat through a debriefing with Alcise and Mousesack once he’d returned. He pretended to know less than he did, not particularly wanting to reveal just how open Calanthe had been with him, in any way, shape, or form.

He still wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole thing.

Mainly because of the note. It was two sentences, one line.

But underneath, there was a solid, tiny ink blot. Like she’d held the pen there. Like she’d considered writing more, and then refrained.

_I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t._ Her words, just before their first kiss, echoed in his mind. The way she’d held back and hesitated, when he’d first approached her. The way she’d hidden a wealth of emotion behind her masks and half-truths, to the point that he—a man rather proud of his ability to see through people’s farces and facades—had been blown away by the revelation of just how deeply she’d returned his feelings.

And she _had_ returned them. Quite emphatically.

And quite tenderly, when she thought he wasn’t aware. She’d kissed the top of his head, when she thought he was asleep. Had sighed in the sweetest, happiest little way when he’d rolled over in the night and pulled her back into him, snuggling their bodies back together again. And when he’d gone back into the bathroom after she’d left, he’d noticed something interesting—she’d put the first aid kit away, but had left a single item on the bathroom counter. A small tube of antibiotic ointment, for the cuts on his hands.

When he’d arrived back at the palace, Alcise had asked after his injuries, asked if he needed anything. He wondered if she was asking personally, or if she’d been directed to, by Calanthe.

_The queen_ , he reminded himself. Regardless of how they’d left things, he’d given his word.

More than anything, he wanted to be the person she’d claimed to see him as, after their first kiss. Regardless of the distrust lining her actions upon leaving, he still (gods help him) wanted to be the kind of person she could trust.

What did it all mean? Which parts outweighed the others? Was there balance to be found, at all?

He didn’t know. The not knowing gnawed at him.

The only solution was to distract himself. He’d sat down at the desk in his chambers, working some more on his draft for Pavetta’s story.

And because he simply couldn’t help himself, he worked on the second, never-to-be-published piece as well.

He’d agreed to the terms, last night. He would absolutely follow them. But when all was said and done—in four days, Great Father, only four days—he would give her this last gift. Whether she deserved it or not.

That part was also uncertain, and that part gnawed most insistently of all.

He printed out Pavetta’s piece. Then decided to print out the second as well. He always printed out first drafts and revised with pen—a little old school, and most of his colleagues teased him for it ( _Gramps Tuirseach, at it again_ , they’d announce with gleeful grins—to which he’d point out that his method had earned him quite a few awards and accolades, and how many did they have, exactly?).

This wasn’t even a full first draft, obviously. Not with four days left. But he’d promised Calan— _the queen_ that he would begin showing her something soon.

And he, at least, was a person of his word.

* * *

Triss Merigold knocked on his door, ninety minutes before dinner. She smiled warmly, tilting her head to one side. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Tuirseach. You look well, all things considered.”

“All things considered,” he agreed lightly. He couldn’t stop his hand from slipping into his pocket, where the necklace rested. He’d kept it there all day, half-afraid of its existence and exactly what it could mean.

“The queen requests that this evening’s brief happen before dinner, rather than after. Give everyone a chance for a little extra rest, tonight.” She was doing that thing where her left hand clutched tightly at her right wrist, her usual tell when nervous about asserting her authority.

“Excellent idea,” he nodded. “I’ll…gather my things.”

She smiled in relief, nodding as well and stepping further back from the door.

He grabbed the paper copy he’d been editing, sliding it into a manila folder. Double-checked to make sure the other article was set aside, under a magazine on his desk.

By the time he joined Triss in the hallway, Mousesack was there as well, with his camera. They headed downstairs, towards the queen’s office.

Every step closer, Eist felt his stomach tighten—in dread or anticipation, he didn’t rightly know.

They entered the office and his heart seized in his chest.

There she was, looking perfectly herself. Seated at her desk, hair back up in its usual chignon, eyes rimmed in kohl and mask firmly in place.

“Good evening, gentlemen." She nodded, in response to their perfunctory bows. “I truly appreciate your flexibility on this.”

Oh, the quip he could make about that. He didn’t, naturally.

Her gaze flicked over to him, immediately noticing the folder. “Do we have a first draft, Mr. Tuirseach?”

“Indeed we do, your highness,” he returned, feeling rather proud at how easily the words came, how nonchalant they sounded.

She dipped her chin a bit, lips pressing together briefly. She approved, too, he could tell.

He offered her the folder as he took his usual seat (yes, he had a usual seat now, he realized, in front of her desk). She set it aside gently. That meant she wasn’t wearing her contacts, he now knew. He’d learned so much about her, he realized—and yet, it still felt as if he knew nothing at all.

Visindra reached for the folder, but Calanthe lightly put her hand over it, stopping her.

“I won’t draw out our meeting—and everyone’s good patience—by reading it now,” Calanthe announced. “Let’s just focus on photographs and any potential security concerns from yesterday’s…incident that might affect the story.”

_Incident_. A madman with a gun had tried to kill her, and it was just an incident.

The photos didn’t take long, as there had only been the event at the Children’s Hospital. Then there was a breakdown of the incident, with certain promises extracted from Eist and Mousesack regarding certain protocol that had been witnessed.

_So she trusts me not to blab about Hochebuz protocol, but not what happened during it?_ He wondered, still feeling a measure of confused irritation.

He kept watching her, trying not to outright stare. Trying to figure out the puzzle, to gauge exactly what was going on in that beautiful head of hers. He’d once told himself that he didn’t want to solve her, because she was simply too charming. Now, he’d do anything just to know her, truly know her so that he could understand.

All too soon, it seemed, everything was wrapped up. Visindra was moving towards the door; Mousesack and Eist were rising from their seats.

Then, in the most casually bored tone, Calanthe spoke, “Mr. Tuirseach, if you wouldn’t mind—I’d like to take a few more minutes of your time. To go over this draft.”

Now she looked up at him, big brown eyes completely impassive as she patiently awaited his answer. Eist realized that she half-expected him to refuse.

“As you wish, your highness,” he returned, sitting back down.

She cut a quick glance at Visindra, who understood, and left the room with Mousesack.

A beat passed, once the door was closed. Eist simply waited. He wouldn’t say anything, until she did.

Calanthe took a moment to fully look at him, now that she didn’t have to worry about outside eyes seeing her reaction whenever she did. She’d spent the better part of her morning, simply packing her emotions back into manageable mental boxes—and she’d spent a far larger part of the day steeling herself for the moment she’d see him again. The whole time, she’d told herself that he would be fine. He would look and act exactly that same, and all her worry would be for naught.

Except he didn’t look exactly the same, she realized with a pang. He looked…tired. Those blue eyes were curious but not sparkling like they should.

She couldn’t stand it.

Yes, he had absolved her of responsibility, last night. But they'd agreed that nothing would change between them—and if that were true, then it meant her…concern for his wellbeing hadn’t changed either. Nor had any of the feelings she'd held before that moment.

Responsibility may be gone. The love was not.

She'd never been good at this. At…unpacking. Emotional debriefs were not something she had much experience with. Emotions themselves—particularly ones of this nature—were equally unpracticed.

Didn’t mean she couldn’t try, to the best of her stunted ability. And she would try, for him. He’d given her so much—she could repay that, in some small way. She couldn’t give him much (never had much to give, in that regard, in the first place), but she could give him this.

Calanthe looked down at her lap, looked away, looked at the folder on her desk. With a sudden rush of decisiveness, she opened her desk drawer and grabbed her glasses, then took the folder and stood up, walking around the edge of the desk.

“Come,” she said, her voice barely a whisper as she breezed past.

Eist stood, feeling a wave of confusion.

From the knees up, she looked exactly the same. Pencil skirt, flowy blouse, meticulous hair. But today’s stockings were black, most likely to hide the bandage on her knee. And she was wearing flats, rather than heels.

She moved to the center of her office, to the two couches with the coffee table between them. She sat, and looked up at him expectantly.

He took a seat next to her, still leaving plenty of space between them. She gave a small hum, neither approving or disapproving, and slipped on her glasses, turning her attention to the folder.

A beat passed. Eist still wasn’t sure exactly what was happening.

Then, delicately, she cleared her throat and ventured. “Are you…alright?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. 

Her shoulders hitched at his reply, as if he’d struck a verbal blow. She pressed her lips into a thin line. He waited. 

“And what, exactly, don’t you know?” She prompted, her voice still low, almost hesitant. Her eyes were still trained on the papers in front of her but she hadn’t read a single word, he could tell. He realized that she’d moved them over here, without the desk, that large reminder of their rank and status, between them. She was trying to signal that this was a conversation between equals—a conversation meant to be honest and open. But she couldn't quite look him in the eye.

“I don't know how I should feel, about it all.” He watched her like a hawk, taking in the light flutter of her eyelashes, the slight intake of breath, the way she shifted back, shifted away from him, just a little. Quietly, he asked, “How should I feel?”

She swallowed hard at that. “I should hope you feel…content. Satisfied.”

Her cheeks turned crimson, and despite the obvious innuendo, he realized that she wasn’t referring to physical satisfaction.

His confusion only grew. She wanted him to look back at everything—particularly at the way things had ended—and feel _content_? Feel emotionally fulfilled?

“You didn’t say goodbye.” He reminded her, trying pull back the incredulity in his tone.

He saw her hands twitch, fluttering the folder still in their grasp. The pulse point at the base of her jaw was beating wildly. Still, her voice was the softest whisper as she murmured, “You were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.”

She was lying. He could feel it. After all the layers removed between them, emotionally and physically, she was still trying to hide. With a flutter of irritation, he dug into his pocket, pulling out the necklace and setting it on the coffee table.

“You also forgot something.”

Now she looked up from her “reading”, eyes wide as they looked at the piece of jewelry. She’d heard the accusation in his tone plainly—mainly because he’d made no effort to hide it.

Her open mouth stuttered and twitched helplessly. Finally, she breathed, “That…was a gift.”

“A gift? Or payment for my silence?”

“What?” She looked up at him, genuinely confused. Her eyes were wide, devoid of tension, the pulse in her neck slowed, as if stunned into a more sluggish pace—she was being utterly honest, he realized. “I didn’t….”

She looked away again, readjusting her glasses and focusing on the document once more. Then, quietly, she spoke, “That wasn’t my intention. I said I trusted you. And I do.”

There was something resolute in her tone. A bit…insulted. Now he felt a measure of insult in turn.

“What exactly was I supposed to think?” He asked quietly, holding his hands out in a gesture of confusion. Still, he reined back his irritation, keeping his tone soft, “You disappeared into the night, and left behind an extremely expensive piece of jewelry on the pillowcase, like a politician tipping her whore.”

The words hit Calanthe like a knife—though the most damage came from his tone, the smallness, the evident hurt. She closed her eyes softly against it. No, no, no…he wasn’t supposed to feel this way. He was never supposed to feel this way. He was supposed to stay that soft and happy thing she’d kissed last night, blue eyes turned even bluer by the wash of neon light across his scruffy, sweet, beautiful face.

She felt stupid—of course it looked like that, what else could it look like? Of course he’d been insulted, how could he not be?

_I don’t know how to do this,_ she wanted to say. _I’ve never…wanted to give gifts before._ _I just wanted to leave something to remind you, to make you smile in that way that makes my lungs forget to breathe. I ruin everything I touch, it’s not your fault, and I’m sorry I touched you like that, too. I have never been good at being soft, at being loving and romantic, and I've certainly never been good at letting go._

She blinked rapidly at the thought. Dipped her head just a fraction lower.

Eist suddenly realized that somehow, he’d hurt her. He felt a pang of regret.

“I didn’t—I would never.” She gave a tiny shake of her head. Then, she sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing, exactly?” He prompted quietly.

_Just tell me_ , his words from yesterday echoed in her head. How much better had it felt, when she’d followed that request? How much easier had things been between them?

This truly was Geralt all over again, because she tripped right over the uncrossable line, all over again. He was hurting, and she was helpless to do anything but rush headlong into the breach, just to comfort him. Even if it meant hurting herself further in the process.

“The thought of….” She looked away, swallowed hard. “Saying goodbye means it’s over. So I’d…rather not.”

“Rather not say goodbye, or rather not end it?” His tone was so cautious, so meticulously devoid of emotion.

“One of those things is beyond our control,” she pointed out softly. She tilted her head, ducking her chin but still turning slightly more towards him. She set her right hand on the couch, on the space between them. “I was afraid of ruining it. Of…losing the friendship between us.”

Friendship? Was that what this was? Perhaps one of the strangest he’d ever experienced but…yes, he supposed, in a way—they were emotionally intimate, long before they’d been physically so. ( _Long before,_ he mused at his own words—they’d known each other just over a week.)

Eist looked down at her hand. It was such a tiny gesture, and yet it seemed unendingly bold and brave, given their circumstances.

Again, he thought of the note. Of the little ink stain, and all it didn't say.

His left hand moved forward, fingertips sliding against hers before their fingers entwined completely.

He saw the slight droop in her shoulders, as if she’d been holding her breath.

“I meant what I said." She finally looked up at him, eyes shining from behind her glasses. “I don’t want things to change between us. And before…before, we were…lovely, in our own way. Weren’t we?”

The little catch of her breath, the little moment of hesitation as she asked those last two words—his heart shattered.

“We were,” he agreed softly. He’d agree to anything, when she looked at him like that.

She smiled. It wasn’t the sun that he’d seen in the flat. It was the moon again, quiet and reserved and still somehow just as bright.

“Good,” she said.

“Good,” he repeated with a smile of his own.

She withdrew her hand slowly, shifting again so that she was facing forward, re-opening the folder with a nonchalant air. “And for the record, _sir_ , I have never—I repeat _never_ —needed to pay off anyone who had the distinct delight to crawl into my bed.”

Her delivery was a little shaky, he noted. But she was trying so hard to find the playful sparring they’d had before. So he gladly met her, desperate to do anything to ease the obvious discomfort.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” he mused. And it was true. "All your former lovers probably live in eternal hope of another chance—they’d never risk losing such an opportunity by blabbing."

She hummed warmly at that, ducking her head as if she were a young girl who'd just been told she was pretty. Then, gods above, the corner of her mouth quirked, briefly, eyes twinkling as she decreed, “And if I _were_ leaving a tip, I promise, I would have left _far_ more than that.”

He surprised himself by laughing. He saw the tension melt away from her shoulders completely. It felt like something clicked back into place again, balanced and right.

Oh, his laughter. Her chest tightened with bubbly joy at the sound. _Good_ , she told herself, _this is good. You’ve brought him back, again_.

“So this was just…a souvenir from my travels?” He guessed wryly. She smiled lightly in agreement.

“It was the only thing I had on hand,” she pointed out.

Not entirely true, she realized. And yes, she had considered another alternative, but it would have left an entirely different message than the one they’d agreed upon. She tried to focus on the papers in front of her.

Damn her to all seven hells, she couldn’t resist. He was here and he was smiling and at-ease again, and she felt the same aching need that she’d felt yesterday—the need to reassure him that this had never been one-sided, in the least. The need to make up for slinking away, for making him doubt, even for a second, how she felt.

_Nothing changes,_ she mused. Well, nothing certainly had changed—because here she was, still unable to stop herself around him.

So after a heavy, weighted beat, she added, in barely a whisper, “It wasn’t as if I could leave my underwear on your pillow.”

Eist blinked hard—at both the imagery and the shift in her tone. Coy, curling at the edges with a hint of teasing.

Was this a test of sorts? Would they have teased like this, before?

No, he realized. She wasn’t testing him. She trusted him, she’d proven that by now. And yes, they would have teased like this—they _had_ , he noted, thinking back to their discussion the morning they left for the desert, Calanthe’s deadpan quip about being well-stocked in brain cells.

“Couldn’t you?” He pushed back lightly, tone lined with curiosity. The idea of waking up to such a sight warmed his blood. He wouldn’t have doubted a single thing, he realized, if that had been her parting gift. “I can assure you, it would have been more than well-received.”

She stilled. Her voice became weighted, cautious. Her eyes never left the paper. “Are you…saying that you wish to…exchange your gift?”

He took a beat to study her, letting the full meaning of her words sink in. There was a blush creeping up her face, and the vein in her neck was hammering with adrenaline.

“With the queen’s blessing, of course,” he said quietly, trying not to spook her. This was definitely not something they would have done before, but gods above, he’d gladly follow this new path.

She cleared her throat slightly. Her left hand still held the folder and its papers in place (as if she were actually reading, he had to admire her commitment to a farce), but her right came down to her knee, slowly shifting the hem of her skirt further up her thigh.

She stopped, once the clasps of her garters were exposed. She stayed perfectly still, perfectly concentrated on her reading.

It was an invitation, he realized. One which he gladly accepted. He gently reached over, undoing the front clasp. He felt rather than heard the small little inhale she gave at the first brush of contact, and his own lungs tightened in response. He slipped his hand around to the back of her thigh, repeating the action with the other clasp.

Then she shifted again, angling towards him a bit more and raising the hem of her skirt again for her left garter.

He had to lean across her to fully reach it. She lifted the paper in her left hand slightly out of the way, but her upper body moved neither forward nor back, staying perfectly still—yet he could feel the way she restrained herself form leaning in, from pressing into him. She was beginning to breathe a bit heavier, and his brain was already swimming from just how easily affected she was.

He may have taken a little longer than was strictly necessary, on this one. Let his fingertips simply swirl over the skin just above the tops of the stockings, just enough to feel the muscles in her thigh twitch in response.

Oh, she shouldn’t be doing this. But Calanthe had already accepted the fact that she had little-to-no impulse control around this man. She smiled wryly at her former self, how she’d stupidly reasoned that if she had a quick little fling, all her feelings would magically disappear. Granted, they always had before, with all her other lovers.

But Eist wasn’t _others_. He wasn’t anything or anyone but precisely himself. And she wasn’t able to do anything but fall to his charms.

It was just a moment. Just…a gift. Something to make him smile. It wouldn’t devolve, because it couldn’t—and she wasn’t lying to herself this time, because they were still in her office.

This felt right, she decided. The right choice, the right way to put a bow atop the gift that had been the last twenty-four hours.

Eist stopped, taking a beat to look up at her, silently reassuring himself that she was still alright. She was too overwhelmed to truly smile (look at him, this sweet, soft thing, of course he deserved to be showered with whatever gifts she could give, with whatever small tokens of affection she could manage)—she simply lifted her glasses, sliding them atop her head. Then she slowly leaned forward, to put the folder on the coffee table.

The thing was, Eist was still slightly leaned over her, fingertips still trilling against the back of her left thigh. Which mean that when she leaned forward, her chest was against his left shoulder, her chin just over his ear.

He didn’t move. Didn’t push further, didn’t retreat. She dipped her head slightly, just enjoying the feel of him, close to her again. She let her right hand come up to slide around the curve of his ribcage, up and across the expanse of his shoulder blades. He shifted now, face turning more towards hers. It felt warm and soft, wrapped around him, wrapped up in this tiny world they’d created with the closeness of their bodies.

_Nothing changes_ , her arse. But maybe…it wasn’t too far from true. He still waited, still let her set the pace. Still gave, without needing to take anything in return.

That, of course, only made her want to give more. She shifted forward fully, and now he gently pulled away, letting her rise to her feet.

He watched her with soft, open-mouthed wonder as she moved, coming to stand between his knees. She slowly unzipped her skirt, slipping her hands past the waistband to shift her underwear down her hips and moving her legs slightly to help them along.

Gods above, he was still the sweetest thing she’d ever seen. How had she ever tried to resist?

“Feel free to make yourself useful at any time,” she drawled, although it was a bit too breathless to truly sound as dry as she’d wanted.

That was invitation enough, Eist decided with a wash of delight. He let his hands start at her knees, slowly sliding under her skirt. His fingertips sang praises when they reached the end of her hose and touched warm, bare skin again. She shivered and he looked up, feeling another surge of heat at the darkness in her eyes as she looked down at him, mouth slightly open as she simply watched him.

His fingers met lace, and the lightest brush of her own fingertips. He slowly slid the fabric down further.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned in slightly, pressing his face into her skirt as his hands slipped around, fingers pressing into the backs of her thighs. She twittered slightly—he could feel the way her hands came closer, as if to bury themselves in his hair, but pulled back at the last moment.

They were still in her office, he reminded himself. There were still lines.

He pulled away, too, fully sliding her underwear down her legs. She gingerly stepped out of her flats along with them, putting slightly more distance between them each time she planted her foot back on the carpet.

Calanthe’s inner voice was absolutely shrieking at her for being so reckless, but in truth, she felt absolutely safe in this moment. She realized that was why she kept pushing over the line—because she never actually got burned, not in the way she expected to, at least.

Eist was looking up at her again, with the kind of look that made her blood boil and evaporate completely, leaving nothing but a dry, burning ache. Like she was some kind of long-lost goddess, some kind of miracle, some kind of good and worthy thing. His hand was slowly tightening around her lace underwear, almost-absentmindedly rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger—the small movement of his hand only set off more heat in her hips (those hands, _oh_ , did she know just how lovely and wonderful those hands were). She felt a little breathless, a little giddy, a little…besotted.

A little everything she shouldn’t be feeling, right now. A little everything she couldn’t allow herself to feel, particularly once he left the palace for good.

Still, she let herself relish it, for just a beat more. Slowly zipped up her skirt, feeling a flush of warmth for how he watched her, taking in every movement and shift.

A knock on the door made them both jump.

She slid into her shoes again; he quickly slid the lace into his pocket.

“Enter,” she called, smoothing her hands over the front of her skirt and skittering further away. Eist snatched the papers off the coffee table and handed them back to her—she immediately pretended to read them, as if her life depended on it.

“Glasses,” he prompted gently. She slipped them back down to her nose.

She could feel her stockings slipping, without the garters to hold them up. Oh gods above, this man would be the death of her. She moved back to her desk, quickly taking a seat.

It was Alcise. Looking a bit worried.

“Apologies for interrupting,” she announced, dark eyes flicking between the two, obviously a bit fearful over what, exactly, she had interrupted. “But there is matter that…has come to my attention, your highness.”

“Quite alright,” Calanthe returned easily. Her gaze turned back to Eist, “We can continue our discussion later, Mr. Tuirseach.”

“Of course.” he rose to his feet, bowing slightly. “I’ll take my leave for now, your majesty.”

She nodded curtly, studiously avoiding his gaze. Still, she saw his hand slip into his pocket briefly, as if making sure her underwear were properly tucked out of sight, and her chest flashed with heat.

_You absolute idiot_ , she told herself. _You just keep circling the drain with this man._

She couldn’t feel angry, couldn't find an ounce of actual chagrin or regret. She’d made him smile again, made those blue eyes shine again. With a flash of terror, she realized that she’d do just about anything to make that man happy.

The warm feelings quickly dissipated, when she focused on Alcise’s tight, pained expression.

“What?” She asked, dread growing.

“I was…going through Renfri’s files, catching up on what I needed to cover,” Alcise explained. With Renfri’s ankle currently fractured, she was confined to desk duty (she’d refused to take time off, though Calanthe had called her personally and argued with the woman to take a much-earned rest). That meant a lot of the security measures surrounding the wedding were now being handled by Alcise. “And…I was going over the list of personnel approved for Jaskier’s appearance.”

Jaskier, that poppy little twat that Pavetta _still_ swooned over. Calanthe flicked her eyes heavenwards. Granted, some of those songs had a rather good beat, but his happy boyish voice made her want to claw her eyes out. No one was that perky in real life.

Eist, maybe. With a wry smirk, she thought Eist Tuirseach probably _would_ like Jaskier’s music.

According to tradition, there would be a large party on the eve of the wedding, featuring close family and the members of the wedding party. Dancing, drinking, dining amongst friends. It was even going to be held in the High Hall, an extension of the Temple of Modron where holy festivals and wedding feasts were often held (and were the actual wedding feast would be held, after the ceremony). Calanthe had arranged for Jaskier to be the evening’s entertainment, as part of her wedding gift to her daughter. Pavetta had no clue. She was going to be overjoyed.

The thought made her smile—but again, Alcise’s expression quickly muted that.

“And what did you find?” Calanthe asked, a bit hesitantly.

Alcise set down a paper with a list of names. “Jaskier’s…personal security team. There’s one name in particular.”

Her finger tapped on the name in question.

_Geralt Rivia._ Calanthe immediately felt the need to retch.

“That’s….” she breathed, unsure of what else to say. _That’s impossible_ , perhaps? But no, it actually made perfect sense that he was still in security work. Hell, she’d written him a rather complimentary letter of recommendation that probably opened the door to any job he’d wanted, after that.

“Renfri wouldn’t have known,” Alcise pointed out quietly.

“Of course not,” Calanthe returned in a low tone. Alcise, Hille, and Visindra knew. That was it. Visindra had known about the fling, almost as soon as it had happened. Alcise and Hille had learned the truth, after the realization that Roegner wasn’t Pavetta’s father.

Seven people in the whole world knew (six, really, as Roegner—thank every god in the heavens—was dead and gone).

It felt like a sign. A warning. A harbinger of things to come. Calanthe didn't believe in coincidence.

She wanted Eist. The realization bolted through her like lightning. She wanted to run to him, to curl up against his chest and hide from it all. To let him shower her with soft affections and gentle attentions, like before. To coddle her, no matter how cruel it might end up being. Somehow, he’d make it all better, she thought, even as her mind screamed in askance at such an idea. He'd make it stop, make it all go away, even if only for a moment.

_If that’s what you want_. Suddenly, her mind latched onto a different part of Eist’s answer, when she’d asked him what would happen, if they continued. _Nothing changes…if that’s what you want_.

At the time, she’d been a little overwhelmed. She’d thought he was trying to gently remind her that she still had control, that he still wanted her to choose what she actually wanted.

Now…it seemed like an invitation. _Nothing changes, if that’s what you want. But if you decided to want more…then things could change, however you want._

_I just want to be weak, for just a little while_ , she thought, lungs suddenly filling with an unnameable emotion. _Just for a little while, I want to be taken care of, not taking care of everything else._

She focused on the task at hand. Of course, there was nothing to be done about it now—asking Geralt to be excluded would raise far too many questions from Jaskier’s team. And besides, Geralt was infamously good at keeping a low profile. He knew what was at stake. He’d keep to the shadows, keep his distance, keep any eyebrows from raising or tongues from wagging.

Still, she worried. And still, she wished for a moment of respite from the worry.

She dismissed Alcise for dinner, but didn’t join the others herself. Instead, she quietly took the sapphire necklace off the coffee table, still considering. Then, with a slight nod of decision, she slipped the necklace on and went up the stairs, dismissing her personal guard for the evening. After a few minutes, she made her way to Eist’s chambers, to wait for him.

She walked among his things, feeling a slight sense of ease slipping into her lungs.

She could be weak, for just a little while. She could stay in whatever moment existed between them, just a little while longer. He would let her. He would hold her and let her be as weak as she needed, she knew with absolute certainty. Whatever happened, she'd be safe, perfectly safe.

For the first time, she wasn’t entirely sure how this thing was going to end. Because every time it was supposed to, it didn’t. Now the thought of it finally ending seemed…a little impossible.

The impossibility was terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So gang, I'm actually going to warn you that there might not be an update on Sunday. I'm trying to make sure an update happens but also...life, ya know?  
> Here's your periodic reminder that you're awesome for hanging with this story for so long, and I appreciate and love you all for joining me on this ride <3


	28. Never Made It Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all. I just...need you to hang with me, ok? Not to be too foreshadowy, but I'mma need you to trust that I'm not gonna let you down. By the end of this particular update, you will be happy, mkay? Mkay. Away we go.

**Eighteen Hours Earlier.**

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

Yennefer was definitely going to wake up with a hangover, she realized as she stood up and the alcohol fully registered in her brain, giving a light bubbly wave through her head. She’d been seated most of the time, hadn’t realized just how much she’d drank, just how off-balance she was.

Tissaia did not look much better. She slid out of booth, rising to her feet as well. _Tiny_ , Yennefer thought. _She’s so tiny, and so much, and so adorable, and she’d absolutely rip my face off for saying so._

The thought only made her smile more.

“What?” Tissaia challenged, hands immediately going to her hair, as if she thought something about her appearance made Yennefer grin. “What, what’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Yennefer lied. “Just…hadn’t expected to ever end up here, with you.”

The bar was far too loud at this point, but Tissaia’s expression implied that she’d given a low hum of agreement.

“C’mon.” Tissaia patted her lower back, prodding her forward. “Let’s get out before we get accosted again.”

Some hapless half-drunk man had already slid into their booth earlier, trying to buy them drinks. Tissaia had been amused, and resorted to stringing him along with some lie about being a traveling lingerie saleswoman. It had been absolutely wicked and thoroughly entertaining. The man had left to go smoke and they’d decided to slip out, before he was aware.

They’d made it out the door and onto the sidewalk when their former drinking companion’s voice rang out, “Oh, you’re not leaving already, are you?”

Yennefer heard Tissaia sigh. Yennefer whipped around, more than ready to give this man an earful, in defense of her former editor.

Tissaia’s hand on her elbow stopped her. She looked down to see the woman smiling brightly.

“I’m sorry, I thought you’d figured it out by now. We’re lesbians. Together. In fact we’re leaving now to go be lesbians together. Thank you so much, have a lovely evening.”

She kept her hand at Yennefer’s elbow, pulling her along without another backwards glance.

Once they rounded the corner, they broke out into laughter.

“Lesbians together?” Yennefer echoed. “That sounds like some dippy campaign slogan.”

“I’m…drunk,” Tissaia pointed out. “I’m doing the best I can with what limited thinking capacity I’ve got.”

Yennefer hummed in understanding. Still, she teased, “I think I might use that as my next pick-up line. ‘Hey, girl, let’s go be lesbians together.’”

Tissaia laughed, dipping her head slightly. She finally released Yennefer’s elbow, and Yennefer immediately missed the contact.

They walked on in contented silence. After a long pause, Tissaia spoke up, “I meant what I said earlier—I wish you’d come back to _The Post_. I’d like…I’d like to try working with you again.”

Yennefer stopped, a little stunned (even though, yes, Tissaia had said as much before).

Tissaia noticed she’d stopped and turned back, skittering to a stop as well.

“You’re drunk,” Yennefer announced.

“I am.” She returned without missing a beat. “But I also know that when I wake up fully sober tomorrow, I’ll regret not taking a chance to undo a past mistake.”

“I left— _I_ made the choice to leave,” Yennefer reminded her. Unlike Tissaia, she wasn’t sure that it was actually a mistake. She’d grown so much, being forced out into the journalism world on her own. And she’d proven to herself that she could make it, on her own. She knew so much more about herself now, and had been mostly proud of what she’d found.

Tissaia gave a sad little smile. “And I let you leave. That was my mistake.”

Yennefer simply watched her, overwhelmed by the alcohol and the competing emotions.

Tissaia. Tissaia wanted her back. Things could be better now, things could be different.

“Come back,” Tissaia commanded softly. “Just…come back.”

There was still so much pleading contained within the command—Yennefer’s heart clenched. She wondered why the woman had become so adamant, so desperate.

She thought back to her response, earlier, too—Tissaia surely couldn’t actually miss the awfulness that co-existed during their working relationship. Couldn’t miss Yennefer’s screaming tantrums, couldn’t miss the days filled with constant struggle and stubbornness.

Why, then? Tissaia wasn’t the type to get lost in nostalgia or sentimentality. She thought back to Tissaia, sitting beside her on the couch. Confessing the decades-long secret she’d kept, and the bargain she’d driven for it. Was this olive branch also a bit of Tissaia trying to reward Yennefer for agreeing to kill the story on Geralt and Calanthe’s affair, a bit of history repeating?

If she was wrong, the accusation could undo everything they’d finally mended. But because she always had to ruin everything, because she always had to _know_ the truth, Yennefer found herself quietly saying, “Tissaia, if this…if this is about earlier…you don’t. You don’t have to feel…beholden. You don’t owe me anything for agreeing not to pursue the story.”

Now Tissaia’s expression crumpled. And Yennefer knew for certain that she’d been wrong. Her throat immediately seized with a desire to apologize, too little too late, as always.

Tiredly, Tissaia confessed, “I wish, just once, that you could look at me and not see something loathsome and manipulative.”

“What do you want me to see?” Yennefer asked carefully. She wanted to argue, to tell Tissaia that she didn’t see those things at all, that she never really had—but maybe, she was learning too. Learning to simply wait, and listen.

“That I…am trying,” Tissaia sighed. “I know when you arrived, I was some kind of monolith to you—and I know how it feels, seeing your idols fall back to earth. And gods above, I do wish I could have lived up to that expectation. But I’m also not the awful thing you see me as now. I’m just…human. I’m just human, Yennefer, and I’m just trying to do my best, to undo the bad I’ve done and find a little good along the way.”

“I do see that,” Yennefer returned simply.

Tissaia was blinking rapidly, and Yennefer felt her own throat tighten with unshed tears.

“And…it’s still not enough?” Tissaia guessed.

Yennefer’s heart broke. She moved closer, placing her hands on Tissaia’s shoulders, leveling her with a direct stare.

“It is enough,” Yennefer assured her thickly.

“Then come back.”

It couldn’t be that simple, Yennefer thought. “What if it doesn’t work out—again?”

Suddenly, Tissaia gave a wry grin. “Do you want it work?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can’t imagine anything not working out, once you put your mind to it,” she drawled, smirking slightly. “You’re the most determined woman I’ve ever met, Yennefer Vengerberg.”

She was looking up at Yennefer with…admiration, she realized. With pride and approval and…something more, something Yennefer had never even dared to hope for.

 _No_ , Yennefer’s mind retorted. _You’re imagining. Projecting. Half-drunk and completely out of your mind._

Then those blue eyes flicked down again—to Yennefer’s mouth, wide and more than a little curious.

And because she always had to ruin everything, Yennefer leaned further into that look, pulling Tissaia into a kiss.

She felt the woman’s entire body stiffen in shock—but before she could pull back and apologize, Tissaia’s hands were cupping her face, keeping her close as she fully returned the kiss. Yennefer gave a small gasp of surprise and Tissaia’s tongue slipped past her teeth, sending electricity straight through Yennefer’s veins. She felt like she was being dragged down by the woman, pulled into the sea by a siren and more than willing to drown in its depths.

Across the street, a chorus of rowdy hoots rang out, obviously approving of the moment.

Tissaia broke away with a light, skittering laugh, turning to give the group of teens a quick flick of the fish, though her smile didn’t really say _fuck off_ quite as vehemently as her gesture meant to. That earned her a few more shouts of approval.

Then she turned back to Yennefer with shining eyes.

Yennefer couldn’t stop herself. She pulled the woman into her again. This time, she pushed deeper into Tissaia’s mouth, earning a low, soft sound of approval. Tissaia’s hands were on her wrists, lightly stroking and encouraging her.

Yennefer’s head spun, but it wasn’t from the alcohol. _This is real_ , she thought, a bit dumbly. _This is really happening._

She slowly withdrew from the kiss, but kept her face close to Tissaia’s, still feeling off-balance and shaken, in the best of ways.

“Fuck,” Tissaia breathed softly.

“A consternation or a command?” Yennefer teased, her voice still a little shaky.

Tissaia hummed in approval at the alliteration. Then warmly admitted, “An invitation, I suppose.”

“Oh.” Yennefer shifted back a bit, the weight of reality actually hitting her.

Tissaia blinked, too, as if she’d also just realized exactly what she’d proposed, what she’d offered. “You don’t…have to accept. I won’t—this isn’t a condition of you being rehired—”

“I would never think it was,” Yennefer quickly interjected. “It’s just…you’re drunk.”

“Is that your only concern?” Tissaia cocked her head to the side, watching her with a curious air.

“Yes,” Yennefer decided.

“Come back to my hotel, then. We’ll order room service and just…talk. Until we’re sober. Then we’ll see how we feel.”

“Alright then.” Even now, Yennefer knew they were both lying to themselves. She already wanted to kiss her again.

Tissaia gave a curt nod of approval, smiling in a smugly feline way that was utterly adorable, Then she turned and moved to the edge of the sidewalk, easily hailing a cab. She opened the door and motioned for Yennefer to get in, “After you, my dear.”

Yennefer slid across the seat, offering a soft greeting to the cabbie. Tissaia gave him the address and then settled further against the seat, giving a light, contented sigh.

“Weird day,” she confessed quietly.

“Weird day,” Yennefer agreed.

Then Tissaia turned to look at her, smiling wryly. “But not bad?”

Yennefer smiled as well. “But not bad.”

She let her hand find Tissaia’s in the darkness of the cab. Watched as the woman’s smile deepened at the intertwining of their fingers.

Yennefer was struck by the absurdity of the moment—if she hadn’t been so childish and stubborn, they never would have gotten here. It was odd, how life worked out, despite her best attempts to ruin it.

“What?” Tissaia prompted, obviously seeing her smile.

Yennefer merely answered with a kiss.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Eist’s heart held a note of hope when Alcise joined them for dinner, but sadly, the queen never arrived.

Still, he couldn’t be too saddened by the loss—her most recent gift was still tucked safely in his pocket, and it meant far more than it should, perhaps.

She trusted him. Absolutely trusted him. She’d been shaking, but certain. She’d been soft and honest and unendingly sweet. More so than she’d been in the flat, in some ways.

 _I don’t want things to change between us_ , she’d said. And for the first time, he realized exactly what that meant. Even if they never crossed a certain line again physically, she wasn’t asking for the emotional intimacy between them to stop. She’d confessed to certain feelings before they crossed that line, and now, he realized that she’d never really expected those feelings to be ignored or denied so much as…simply not acted upon.

He could do that, if that was what she wanted. He could also gladly follow along with any more games and exchanges, if that was what she wanted, too.

The wedding was in four days. After that, he might stay an extra few days, to finish writing his article. So he had perhaps a week, at the very most.

Anything could happen in a week, he realized. He’d spent a grand total of thirteen days with her, and look how far they’d come (pun intended, he thought wryly).

He thought of his usual seat, across her desk. Tried not to think too much about the quiet, blood-boiling interaction in the stillness of her office, when they were alone. Decided it wouldn’t be a bad thing, having a few extra days of that.

Found himself wishing that it was more than just a few extra days.

Dinner was a slightly more restrained affair than usual. By now, everyone had settled into a comfortable sense of camaraderie, and there was no telling where an evening’s conversation might lead. But tonight, there was an elephant in the room.

Tonight, Pavetta was absent, along with Duny and Visindra. Eist hadn’t seen the princess since the children’s hospital, and he felt another prickle of worry at the thought.

Hille and Mousesack both enjoyed a pint of ale with dinner, though their conversation was much less animated than it had been, the first night they’d discussed their mutual love of beer. Triss moved further up the table, taking Visindra’s usual seat to chat with Alcise and Eist.

Alcise was not much of a dinner companion. She seemed distracted, withdrawn. Again, Eist worried about what, exactly, had brought her into the queen’s office earlier, and if it was the same reason that she seemed to constantly frown at her own inner thoughts.

He wanted to go back to Calanthe. To find her again—not to continue the moment they’d been building in her office (though it was quite lovely, quite nice), but to make sure that she was alright, that she wasn’t frowning and furrowing her brows as well.

 _Where does this come from?_ He wondered. Yes, he knew he loved the woman, and yes, he’d been in love before. But he’d never felt this…oddly protective. Made odder still by the fact that he knew, beyond all doubt, that Calanthe was more than capable of handling herself, perhaps more so than anyone he’d ever known.

It was just…she was so soft, underneath it all. Yes, she had exceptional armor and a will of steel—but she’d shown him her heart, and it was an unbelievably tender thing, when it was allowed to be. He found himself constantly wanting to shield her, to give her a chance to remove her own armor and simply breathe.

Granted, if it also meant giving her a chance to remove other things, well…that certainly didn’t hurt. She was a mind-blowing lay, he could readily admit that—though he supposed everything between them was heightened by the emotional connection. As in all things, she was theatrical and dramatic and playful and perceptive in a way that made her anticipate and fulfill his needs and desires before he even really spoke them (and sometimes before he even truly realized they existed at all). He’d had great sex before—he’d never had it with this much love and passion involved, on both sides.

That was the thing, he realized. The…equality of it. The feeling of being met on every level. He’d had fantastic physical escapades with women who couldn’t—or flat out wouldn’t—hold a deep conversation before or afterwards. He’d had deep emotional connections where the chemistry or physical dynamics just weren’t as great. He’d had relationships where both sides were fulfilled, but it was always a bit off-balance, in regards to who cared more. Being a former prince and adventuring war correspondent had something to do with it, often. There was often a weird sheen, at the beginning, which almost always ensured it would become nothing more than a fling (not that he really pursued relationships these days, anyways). There was fervor and energy, but it was almost always directed at an ideal of himself, not his _actual_ self.

Calanthe hadn’t allowed for that, in the least. She’d pulled back layer after layer, without any effort at all—simply by pulling back her own. Every moment of vulnerability and trust she gave, made him want to be more open and authentic in turn. When he was soft, she melted, and it made him melt even more. When he was passionate, she met him full-force, and it felt like they spun off into their own little hurricane. When he was playful, she laughed and played, too—not in a falsely coquettish way, but with a genuine sense of joy and delight that made the most carnal things seem…wholesome, almost, in an odd way.

And through it all, through every nuance and shade, he’d felt seen. Truly seen. Truly appreciated for what was seen.

Even tonight, despite the rocky start to their discussion, Calanthe had shown that she’d understood his need for reassurance—and she didn’t hesitate to give that reassurance, in a way that left no room for even a shadow of doubt.

How could he ever expect to find that again, with anyone else, anywhere else in the world?

He already knew the answer. His heart ached softly at the realization.

* * *

_Well, that’s what you get_ , Calanthe quietly told herself. Her hand was shaking, she noted, making the paper warble softly in the dead-silent room.

She’d been alone in Eist’s chambers, waiting for him to return from dinner. She’d gotten a little curious, a little anxious, and she’d rather easily found the two printed pages underneath the magazine on his desk. _Walking with a Lioness_ , its bold title had proclaimed. No prizes for guessing its subject.

She’d known that she shouldn’t read it—should never have snooped enough to find it—and yet, her curiosity had been too great.

Her heart and her world shattered, upon reading the words. First, the betrayal of it all—she wasn’t supposed to even be mentioned in Pavetta’s piece, and here he was, writing an entire article about her alone, apparently. Then, the words themselves:

_In the twenty-odd years of her reign, Queen Calanthe of Cintra has been called many things. Clever, cunning, manipulative, stubborn, determined beyond belief—both her detractors and her admirers seem to agree, though they disagree on whether those traits are vices or virtues. An iron-fisted maverick at first glance, an enigma upon closer inspection, and every inch a credit to her epithet as The Lioness…._

Her vision blurred. He had looked at her, those blue eyes shining with earnestness, and swore that he saw her, saw the true self beneath it all. And this, apparently, was what he’d seen.

Her chest did an odd little skitter as she considered the moments they’d shared—is that what he’d seen, in the times that she’d tried to be caring and tender? When she’d touched him, had he felt an iron fist instead of softness? When she’d let herself be open and vulnerable, had he only seen an enigma, some clever, cunning trick at play? When she’d confessed her feelings (oh, what a foolish thing she’d been), had her voice sounded manipulative to his ears?

She couldn’t read the rest. She forced herself to, anyways.

It wasn’t finished. It was barely two pages so far. But it was more than enough.

 _He never actually loved you_ , her inner voice whispered. _He said what he needed to, to get closer, to get a better angle on his little story. You’ve been conned, my dear idiot._

Even now, she couldn’t quite believe it. No, he’d been too genuine. She was a fucking idiot, but she still knew how to read people. She’d _felt_ it.

That only made it worse. Because he _did_ care, he did hold some measure of love and affection—and yet, he still didn’t actually see her. (And if he did love her, and this was what he saw—what kind of person looked upon all that and loved it, what did that say about him and his character?)

She slowly sank into the chair at his desk, holding her head in her hands. _I have been seen, and this is still all there was to see._

Calanthe Fiona Riannon had long given up on being lovable. But Eist Tuirseach had pulled at something in her, had made her trick herself into believing in the magic of hope, of the possibility that, just once, someone could look upon her faults and failings and see beyond, see something more.

But even the man who’d looked up at her with the most worshipful expression she’d ever witnessed, who’d all but proclaimed his love for her out loud with his sweet smile and shining eyes—this was still all he had seen.

 _Quick, cutting, clever, cunning, iron-fisted, enigma, manipulative, aware of her own flaws and capable of wielding them like a weapon_ —his words were seared in her memory, currently running on a loop.

She’d run up here, desperate for softness and kindness, desperate for an excuse to be soft herself.

Instead, she’d been met with the cold, hard truth.

And most importantly—a lie.

Because he’d assured her that she wasn’t the subject of his article. He’d looked her in the eye and agreed, when she’d reminded him. After everything, after she’d opened old wounds and showed him just how important such a thing was to her, he still had no qualms about lying to her.

What did it mean—if you loved someone, and still had no issue with doing the one thing they asked you not to do?

Simple answer: you may love them, but you don’t love them enough.

She was so absorbed in her own little pity party that it took her a moment to register the sound of a door opening. She rose to her feet, quickly smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt, and grabbed the papers again.

The look on Eist’s face, at the sight of her—it nearly murdered her completely.

Yes, he loved her. But apparently, not enough. All the love and adoration she’d felt radiating off him in waves over the past twenty-four hours—even that much was still not enough to overcome whatever flaw existed within her.

Eist’s heart leapt at the sight of Calanthe, standing in his room—and then skittered uncertainly at her expression. She was wearing a mask, face completely impassive. But he could practically feel the odd energy radiating off her in waves.

“What, pray tell, is this?” She asked, tone silky, edged with threat. She held up a set of papers.

The second story. Even at a distance, he knew. Nothing else in this entire room would have affected her like this. His heart hammered into overdrive. He moved a little closer and she countered, meeting him in front of his desk.

“It was…a surprise.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how lame they sounded.

“A surprise?” She breathed, eyebrows lifting. “You _lied_ to me—and you want to wrap it up in the cloak of _a surprise_?”

He blinked, unable to deny it and fully aware of what that meant to her. Fully aware of what that might mean for them, for whatever thing was growing between them.

“It was never going to be published.” He held his hands out, keeping his voice soft. “It _isn’t_ going to be published—”

“I’d ask for your word on that, but I’m not sure I put much stock in that anymore,” she drawled. Her tone was unemotional, almost patronizingly droll, but it was more armor, another veil between them.

“Calanthe—”

“ _Your highness_ ,” she returned, with a sudden vehemence. The burning darkness in her eyes spoke clearly enough: _you have forgotten your place, sir, in more ways than one_.

His throat tightened. Still, he pushed himself to speak, to explain, “I was going to give it to you, after the wedding. It was meant for your eyes only—I meant what I said, that night your office. I wanted you to know that you’d been…seen. Fully seen, truly seen, for all that you are.”

She blinked rapidly, but the tears in her eyes did not look like the happy sort. She did a half turn, putting her shoulder to him as she looked down at the paper, holding it further away to better read, “ _An iron-fisted maverick at first glance, an enigma upon closer inspection_ ….”

She snapped it back down, shoulders high and tight as she boredly intoned, “Goodness, I feel like I should award your some kind of commendation for valor—it must have been absolute torture, _enduring_ the past twenty-four hours—”

“Don’t.” He stopped her, holding his hand up. She tensed, even though he didn’t actually touch her.

He took a deep breath and shifted closer, still not touching her, but bringing their bodies closer—he didn’t miss the way she instinctively turned a bit more towards him, even though she stopped herself as soon as she realized what she’d done ( _there, there’s still hope, still a chance_ ).

“It wasn’t like that,” he assured her thickly. He thought back to the stars in her eyes, the soft certainty of her smile. “You know it was never like that.”

“I don’t know anything,” she admitted, in a heartbreakingly small voice. Her chest was heaving and even though she wasn’t looking at him, he could see the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

“You know _me_ ,” he returned, low and emphatic. “None of this has been a lie for me. My feelings have never been—”

“What _have_ they been, exactly?” She turned to him again, face tight with fearful curiosity.

Eist blinked, mind reeling at the fact that she even had to ask—hadn’t he been plain enough, in expressing his feelings?

He hadn’t said the words. Had been too afraid, in a way. Afraid it would be too much, too soon. Afraid it would break the spell. Afraid she wouldn’t say it back. _Afraid_.

He clutched that fear and pushed forwards anyways—because she was looking at him _like that_ , so desperate for some kind of lifeline.

“Calanthe,” he breathed. “I…I love you.”

Her expression shattered. With the saddest little wobble of her bottom lip, she noted, “And love still wasn’t enough to stop you from lying.”

He heard the actual statement she meant to make: _I wasn’t enough._ This woman, she’d feared being too much and now she felt that she wasn’t enough. Who was responsible for this? He wanted to tear their hearts to pieces with his bare hands. He felt the sting of tears. “Yes, it was a lie, of sorts—but one with good reason. It wasn’t—”

“A lie is a lie,” she said softly. Those big brown eyes melted, in a way that broke his heart. “You said you understood.”

“I do understand—”

“Then what? You understood, and yet you thought that, despite all I had told you—despite all the wounds I opened up to show you—that you still knew better? That somehow, doing the one thing I asked you not to would be all fine and dandy, because it was you? Because you are somehow different and special?” She meant for her words to be sharper, harsher, but she could hear the tears in her own voice. Even now, he made her too soft. “Because you somehow know, better than I do, what I want and need? Is that it? Is that your good reason?”

He had no defense against such an argument. He realized how selfish his actions looked, how inconsiderate—even if their intentions were far from it. He thought of Roegner, simply overruling Calanthe’s wants and feelings after she’d clearly expressed them, bulldozing her into something she wasn’t ready for. How different was he, in this moment?

He would make himself different, he decided. He would meet her with honesty and humility.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it that way, or I never would have done it—I need you to know that. And I need you to know that I understand, I really do. Just…tell me how to make it right.”

It was getting hard to breathe again, Calanthe realized, blinking against the pure earnest sheen in those beautiful blue eyes. She had to look away.

Apologies were not something she was used to—giving or receiving, truth be told. She wasn’t sure how she’d expected this moment to turn out, but it wasn’t like this.

She glanced down at the papers in her hand. She didn’t have to actually read it again, to remember his words, which still hurt. _Manipulative_. Right now, as she stood here on the verge of tears—did he think it was all a clever tactic, to manipulate him into doing what she wanted?

It didn’t matter, she decided. Either way, she’d get what she wanted ( _right?_ ). She raised the papers, slowly pushing them against his chest. “Destroy it. Now.”

She looked up at him, and his heart broke all over again at the smallness and the sadness in those big brown eyes. He wanted to hold her, to soothe away all the hurt he’d caused—and yet, he knew that she’d probably rip him to shreds if he tried.

So instead, he simply let his hand slip over hers, which was still pressing the papers into his chest. Her expression melted and her fingers flexed into his chest, but she clenched her jaw and simply slipped her hand from underneath his. Then, she wrapped her arms around herself, dipping her head slightly and looking away as she waited. He slowly began to rip the pages to shreds. Pieces drifted to the floor like snowflakes, swirling around their feet.

So far, he’d only written an intro. With a pang, he saw how those words must look—none of his true feelings were contained within those two pages.

“This—this isn’t the whole story.” He tried again, desperate to mend the rift between them. She was less than a foot away, and yet, it felt as if she wasn’t even in the room anymore. “There’s so much more that I wanted to say—so much more that I saw—”

“But you still saw that.” She looked up at him again, absolutely hurt. “All of that…was still true. Still what you see, when you look at me.”

He wouldn’t lie to her again. And yes, he did still see so many of these qualities in her.

Calanthe realized that until this moment, she’d still held on to one last shred of hope—a chance that she’d misunderstood, that he didn’t see her like that, that she was somehow wrong or confused. But no. His expression answered before his lips did. _Quick, cutting, clever, cunning, iron-fisted, enigma, aware of her own flaws and capable of wielding them like a weapon._

She wouldn’t cry about it. She wasn’t a child, hurt by a few mean words. That wasn’t the issue, anyways, she told herself. He’d lied. He’d abused her trust and her goodwill. Grief became anger as she reminded herself of every moment, every chance that he had to say something or simply get rid of the article itself, but chose not to.

His brows furrowed as he quietly spoke, “I see other things, too, Calanthe. Good things, admirable things. I never intended—”

“I told you that I didn’t like lying. You said you understood. Later, I reiterated that you were not writing about me—and you looked me in the fucking eye and agreed.” The line of her jaw grew tauter, brows furrowing in anger. Her voice was low and shaking, like the rumble of thunder before a mighty storm. “I don’t give a flying fuck about _intention_ —the _action_ was literally the one thing I asked you never to do.”

“Except you didn’t actually ask,” he pointed out, before his mind could fully process what he was saying. Still, he pushed forward, deciding that if she hated lying, then he’d point out the whole truth. “You never do. You don’t ask or say anything. You just expect me to always understand, to somehow read your mind and always make the right choice.”

She blinked hard at that, as if she’d been slapped. Then, quietly, she pointed out, “Well, I am an enigma, am I not?”

Fucking hell, she’d be the death of him. He almost wanted to laugh, out of frustration and insanity. But he looked back into those eyes and saw the absolute hurt still radiating from them, and the frustration dissipated immediately.

Eist took a deep breath and chose a kinder tone. “Look, I fucked up. I can see why this upsets you, and I understand that action holds more weight than intent. But can you tell me—honestly—if I had sat down quietly with you, and explained that this piece was never going to be published, that it was merely my way of showing that I see you, _truly_ see you, and that I _love_ what I see…if I handed it to you and told you that it wasn’t an article, but a love letter—would you not see it differently, then?”

A love letter. Calanthe’s chest tightened at the thought. She’d never gotten one of those before. A boy in her teens had written some rather awful poetry, ages ago, but that was it. None of her lovers could leave a paper trail, and either way, none of them had really been invested in wooing her beyond the bare requisite to get into her bed. Roegner certainly hadn’t, not even in his more charming phases.

A love letter. This was as close as she’d gotten. Poor, pitiful creature.

She swallowed thickly and schooled her tone into a neutral air. “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

She watched his heart break before her eyes. And she hated him, for how it still hurt to see him in any kind of pain. Hated him, for the way she still cared. Hated him, for making her love him.

“Let me at least tell you the rest.” His voice was low, heavy with emotion, almost pleading.

“I think I’ve _let you_ do quite enough, don’t you?” She returned, crossing her arms over her chest again. Gods above, she was still standing here, no underwear under her skirt because they were currently tucked in his pocket, thighs still raw from his stubble, neck still marked from his teeth—and every bit of it was because he’d looked at her like that, and she’d been unable to say no. She had to learn to say no, she realized.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply, and he meant it, every ounce, she knew.

She pushed back the lump in her throat and blinked, feeling a wave of shame for the tears she felt streaking down her cheeks. “Delete the digital copy, too.”

He merely sighed and shifted around her gingerly, leaning over the desk to open his laptop and pull up the file. She turned and watched, making sure he deleted it permanently.

She needed more, she realized. He’d broken her heart and she wouldn’t be content until she had his heart between her teeth. She needed him to feel as raw and aching as she did, to feel small and stupid, the way she had upon reading the article.

Her stomach rebelled at the thought, clenching unpleasantly. Still, she took a breath and set herself to the task of evening the score.

Eist continued leaning against the desk, for just a beat, his mind reeling, trying to find the right words— _any_ words, if they made her stay, made her understand. He knew he’d hurt her, and he didn’t want to hurt her further by pushing too hard. But they couldn’t leave things like this. He couldn’t let her leave this room, believing that he would ever intentionally do something so cruel, or that she somehow wasn’t worthy or good or whatever else she now thought, after reading the article intro.

He wanted to fall to his knees, to say all the things he felt, all the things he’d wanted to disguise within the less-emotional tones of the article—but if he did, would she truly believe him? Would she think it was just some last-ditch effort on his part? Another set of lies to soothe her, to make her stay?

He could feel her shifting oddly behind him. Then, quietly, she moved beside him, her voice low and flat.

“You can keep the gift.” Her hand held up the sapphire necklace, right in front of his eyes. “But this time, this is _exactly_ what you thought it was.”

She slowly lowered it onto the desk, leaning in to whisper. “For services rendered. And for whatever financial gain you’ve lost by not publishing your tell-all on the Queen of Cintra.”

Her voice was too wobbly, she knew. It wasn’t steely or cutting at all. It was watery and weak and she hated herself for it.

She slid away like a shadow. He couldn’t stop himself—he reached out, grabbing her wrist before she fully retreated. “Calanthe, wait—”

“Don’t!” She practically bellowed, pulling away from his grasp so violently that she stumbled back. She glanced over at the door wildly, obviously aware of just how loud she’d been. Her chest was heaving again, her eyes dark and wide. Quietly, she hissed again, “ _Don’t_.”

Her entire body was shaking, and he genuinely thought she might actually try to murder him. There was pure rage in her expression, radiating off her shoulders in waves.

He turned to face her fully, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you further. I never meant to hurt you at all.”

“This is becoming quite the habit of yours,” she noted, tone dripping with disdain. Now it was easy to find the right tone, the right amount of venom and bite. Adrenaline was in pounding overdrive at this point, and she could feel herself almost careening out of control from the surge of fear that his touch had brought. She curled her mouth into a snarl, “Doing exactly what you don’t intend to do—careful, Mr. Tuirseach, one day, I might not be able to believe you when you say you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Of course, he’d known that she was hurt. But hearing her say it—hearing the slight break in her voice as she confessed it—made his entire chest seize with pain.

He could feel her slipping away, emotionally. “I made a mistake—a big fucking awful one, I will readily admit. But please—”

“No,” she said simply, turning and heading for the door ( _there, see?_ She was learning, though far too late, as usual).

Eist took a step forward and she skittered to the side, like a startled rabbit.

 _Oh my darling_ , he couldn’t help but think. _Who made you this way? Who made you jump at the slightest movement, when words were angry? Who made you fear physical anger, too?_

Her face flushed with anger again, and this time, he knew it was because she’d seen the sympathy written plainly across his face.

“I don’t want your apology. I don’t want your noble intentions and good reasons. I don’t want your marshmallowy little looks of pity and I don’t want you any more involved in my life than absolutely necessary,” she sniped back, hands clenching into fists to keep her whole body from shaking. She had fire in her belly and she needed to push it out of her raw and aching throat, until there was nothing left standing. _Quick, cutting_ —oh, she’d show him just how quick and cutting she could truly be. She’d show him just how she could wield her sharp edges like a weapon, with her iron fist. She threw her hand in the direction of the desk, and the necklace that still sat upon it. “Take your payment and keep your mouth shut. Do your fucking job and then _fuck right off_.”

She blew out of the room before he could respond.

 _There_ , she thought _. I have my pound of flesh._

That was the best she could hope for, at this point—that she’d hurt him more than he’d hurt her.

The tears welled up again as her mind repeated the words he’d written about her, printed out in black and white, irrefutable and damning: _quick, cutting, clever, cunning, manipulative, stubborn, iron-fisted…_

She had to stop for a moment. Just to catch her breath. Her head was swimming.

“Mum?”

She whipped her head up at the sound, the soft fear in her daughter’s voice.

“Are you alright?” Pavetta was standing there in her pajamas, face lined with concern.

“Yes, darling, of course.” She shoved her messy, roaring emotions back into the cage of her ribs. She couldn’t quite manage a reassuring smile. Still, she sniffed, turning away slightly until the tears retreated. “I just…felt a little out of sorts.”

“Should I call the doctor—”

“No, no.” Calanthe moved closer, quickly wrapping Pavetta into her arms. “Just…the stress of it all. I’ll be fine.”

She kissed her temple fiercely, keeping her lips there for a beat more before pulling away to ask, “How are you? Any more nightmares?”

Pavetta grimaced slightly. “A few, but none too bad. The drugs help.”

“Perhaps let’s not go around saying such things out loud,” Calanthe suggested dryly. That earned her a grin from her daughter.

Still, Pavetta shook her head lightly, “Seems like such a silly thing to have nightmares about—”

“Pavetta, your life was in danger.” Calanthe shifted back a bit, still keeping her daughter in her grasp. “Of course you’re going to need time to process it.”

“But it was nothing compared—”

“No.” The queen shook her head curtly. “You can’t compare, not these things. This was the most dangerous situation _you_ have ever been in, and nothing negates that, or lessens its impact upon your life, in any way.”

“Have you had nightmares about it?” Pavetta asked cautiously, almost afraid of the answer.

Calanthe’s throat tightened, “Yes. Just…one.”

Technically, it was a nightmare about Hochebuz. But it was due to yesterday’s incident. And Eist had been there to hold her, to pull her out of it—she hadn’t dreamt anything at all, the rest of the night.

Fresh pain seared through her chest. He’d held her, rocked her awake with soothing words and soft touches. And she’d eaten it up, starved, pitiful creature that she was. Then she’d opened her legs yet again, unable to express gratitude and affection any other way than through her body, and he’d taken her, just like Roegner, for utterly ulterior motives.

It wasn’t that simple, she knew it wasn’t. It would be far easier, if it was.

No, he’d loved her—or loved what he could. But all the love and affection hadn’t been enough to stop him from lying, just like the others.

Roegner had held her hand in the High Temple, swore aloud to honor and protect her. He’d abused her affections, dishonored her wishes and used her body against her for his own whims and wishes. Had physically hit her, with the same hand that had placed the ring upon her finger as he spoke those vows.

Geralt had promised to be loyal and true, in his oath upon joining her protection detail. Later, promised that nothing would change between them, after their night in Temeria. And yet, at the first true test of loyalty, he bolted. And all because he couldn’t hold to his promise of _nothing changes_ —because the second he realized that he’d given her Pavetta, he suddenly couldn’t look at her without feeling some kind of…odd affection or obligation or ownership, like she was now a favored brood mare (that was a bit far, she knew, putting Roegner’s desires in Geralt’s heart, but what else could she think? The knowledge of her carrying his child changed them, when nothing before had, what else could it mean?).

Eist had promised not to write about her, and he’d done exactly that. And not just that—he had written such a scathing view of her character that honestly, anyone who read it would be more than ready to finish what that awful man at the children’s hospital hadn’t been able to.

She had to accept an awful truth: the common denominator was her. Something within her.

 _You never made it easy_ , her mother’s voice echoed in her head. One of their last conversations, before her death. _Even as a small child, you never made it easy to love you._

She’d always been this way, somehow. There may be parts of her that could be loved, but they seemed far outweighed by the parts that couldn’t.

“Mum?” Pavetta sounded frightened again. Her hands were cupping Calanthe’s face.

“I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m so glad you’re alright,” Calanthe breathed, letting out a shaky exhale as she pulled her daughter into a bone-crushing embrace again.

It wasn’t a lie. _I’m so glad you’re alright. I’m so glad you’ve found love, true and good and kind. I’m so glad that in some ways, in the best of ways, you are not your mother’s child. I’m so glad you won’t know the heartaches I have known, nor be forced to make the same awful mistakes._

But she couldn’t regret all of her mistakes. One of them gave her the sweet child currently in her arms. She held on even tighter, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears surged up her throat and burned the back of her eyelids.

“I love you so much,” she murmured. “I love you so much and I’m so glad you’re safe. I’m so very glad you’re safe.”

She stayed there, in the middle of corridor, holding onto her daughter and gently swaying, for quite a long time. And Pavetta let her. She simply held on tight in return, lightly stroking down Calanthe’s back and fighting back tears of her own for the way she felt her mother’s lungs shiver and shudder with unvoiced sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apologies on the update drought. If you follow me on tumblr, you're probably at least vaguely aware that I traumatically injured my hand this week, and it's a wee bit harder to do things like type. Then two days later, I had an issue with medication reaction (basically the "fun" part of alcohol poisoning--from ages ago because apparently I've been lowkey trying to kill myself since jump--is that your liver becomes extremely finicky and dramatic, and your body will immediately react to the smallest of things) which kind of knocked me on my ass for the rest of the night. But I'm still alive (ha, suck it, bitches) and planning to have this story wrapped by the end of the week. 
> 
> Other things to look forward to: the Veiled Truths playlist, coming this week!!


	29. Only One Way to Find Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random side note I need to point out (because I don't even know, man): while everyone else's mental wording of Calanthe's title is "the queen", Renfri specifically sees her as "the Queen". So if/when you see a shift in spelling convention, it's merely because the POV has changed. Just...a thing you now know, I guess.

**Twelve Hours Earlier.**

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

Tissaia paced the room, biting her thumbnail as her mind whirled and turned.

She’d woken up this morning with Yennefer’s head on her shoulder, warm breath gusting softly over her collarbone—and she’d immediately been seized with fear. Things were still so tenuous between them, had she toppled everything they’d rebuilt so far?

Granted, she certainly hadn’t been alone in this decision. No, for all Yennefer’s profusions of seeing Tissaia as a former hero, she’d had no problem approaching her on equal footing. And for all their agreement on waiting until fully sober, by the time they’d made it back to Tissaia’s hotel room, things had practically already reached a boiling point.

The memory of Yennefer, pinning her up against the wall, flooded Tissaia’s chest with heat again.

Yennefer had seemed fine, when she awoke. Kissed Tissaia sleepily and offered to go get coffee. Tissaia had agreed, half-wondering if Yennefer would actually return.

She hadn’t quite been gone ten minutes. Tissaia had dressed, made herself look a bit more presentable, and then let her mind take over with thoughts of pure anxiety.

Then, Tissaia’s phone rang. Her entire body melted in relief at the sight of Eist Tuirseach’s name on her caller ID, the first time since yesterday's assassination attempt. Still, she answered in a far less grateful tone, “What the motherfucking hell, Tuirseach.”

“Don’t even. I already talked to Mousesack—”

“I’m sorry, you called him first?” She wasn’t actually surprised.

“I called my sister first, actually. I called him second.”

“I don’t think you’re winning the argument in the way that you think,” she drawled, flicking her gaze heavenward.

He chuckled softly at that. Then offered, “I’m sorry. I’m sure Mousesack explained.”

“He did. Still. I was expecting to hear from you before now.”

“You know I love to keep you on your toes. Keeps you sharp.”

She rolled her eyes at his predictable snark. “I’m sharp enough, I promise you that.”

There was a quick rap on the door, and Tissaia opened it, letting Yennefer back into the hotel room. She nearly cried in relief at the sight of coffee, which Yennefer handed to her.

Tissaia made a slight motion to the cellphone still currently held to her ear, silently mouthing _Eist_.

Yennefer merely nodded, eyes wide.

Yennefer barely waited until the call ended to ask, “Does he know?”

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Eist didn’t know what to do. More than anything, he wanted to run after Calanthe, to explain and make her understand.

She would not respond well to such a thing, he knew. He scrubbed a hand across his forehead and cursed his own stupidity.

_You should have written her a real letter,_ he berated himself _. Shouldn’t have tried to hide behind your journalistic mask, you coward_.

Because it had been cowardly, in a way. If he wrote an article, it would still show all the parts of her that he loved, but in a more clinical way. She would read it, and still understand (and if she chose not to acknowledge those feelings, well, he still saved face, in a way). He wouldn’t have to be quite so direct, quite so bold and vulnerable.

It terrified him, the thought of truly confessing it all. Even when he’d known that he was in love, he’d chosen his words so carefully, so afraid of her reaction. In the end, she’d still understood—but there was always still a layer of deniability, over it all.

He could write a thousand letters, now. She’d never read a single one, he knew.

Fuck. He looked around, at the bits of paper all over the floor, the sapphire necklace resting next to his laptop.

_So this is how it ends_ , he thought sadly. He’d known it would have to end, eventually. But not quite so soon. And certainly not like this.

He should have fought harder, he realized. Should have met Calanthe at her level. Should have held her anyways, even if she’d torn him to shreds in the process. Should have let her yell down the entire fucking palace around them. Should have done anything that kept her here, just a moment longer.

But she’d looked at him with those sad dark eyes and he’d been a drowning man, unable to do anything but simply sink further.

He’d never have another chance to explain, he knew. She’d make sure of that—she’d freeze him out entirely, and still remain perfectly professional about it, and they’d never have a quiet moment to speak together alone again. He knew this, all the way down to his bones.

And she would go the rest of her life, believing that all the lies others had told her were true. Believing that this was a good as it got, as much as she deserved, because she was somehow too much and not enough.

That hurt the most. The realization that she’d never have closure or full understanding. That he’d contributed to her fears, in some way.

Visindra’s words came back to him: _We are all products of our pasts. Some of us have more obstacles to overcome, in the pursuit of our better selves._

He’d just put another obstacle in Calanthe’s path, he realized. He wasn’t sure how to forgive himself for that.

He scooped the necklace off the desk and tossed it in a drawer. He felt a wash of anger at the thought. She’d been petty and small, in that moment—and more than anything, he was angry that he didn’t feel angrier at her for doing it.

He loved her still. Loved her petty, loved her cruel, loved her in every shade and form, even when it made him bleed.

Another bolt of terror shot through his chest. He loved her unconditionally. In a way that he’d truly never loved another, at least not romantically.

And he’d let her storm out the door. Let her walk away, taking every chance at anything more with her.

She wasn’t the only one who would never get closure, he realized. He’d never recover from this either. He wasn’t sure if that was a tragedy, or simply the universe’s attempt at justice.

His phone buzzed. His daily reminder to call Tissaia.

With a heavy sigh, he quickly dialed her number. He’d talked to her just this morning; there wouldn’t be much to report, thankfully. One quick, relatively painless call.

“Ye gods above, Eist Tuirseach actually called on time.” Her tone was laced with amused wonder.

“Keeping you on your toes, de Vries,” he reminded her, trying to infuse a playfulness into his tone that he certainly didn’t feel. It fell a bit flat.

“Y’okay?” Of course, Tissaia picked up on it immediately.

“Just tired,” he returned. Not entirely untrue.

“I can imagine,” she said softly. “So how’d it go, returning to base?”

“Fine. The expected round of debriefs and lists of bits that can’t be published for security purposes.”

Tissaia hummed, as if she’d also expected as much. “Well, everyone’s safe and sound, that’s what matters.”

He didn’t have the energy to respond to that.

“I’ll let you get some rest.” Her tone was lined with concern. “Until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,” he replied, hanging up.

He set the phone on the desk and tucked his hands into his pants pockets. His right hand immediately met with lace.

He closed his eyes and sighed. _So this is how it ends._

* * *

**Aldersberg, Aedirn.**

Tissaia hung up and shifted her attention back to the woman seated beside her on the park bench. That morning, when Yennefer had returned with coffee, they’d talked about what had happened, the night before.

Yennefer had asked careful questions about Vanielle. Tissaia had realized that apparently, Sabrina Glevissig had talked about more than just Eist’s current assignment, in Verden.

Tissaia had explained their relationship—and also that she herself wasn’t one for constant companionship. She’d expected Yennefer to balk, perhaps even leave outright.

Instead, the younger woman had merely nodded. Had seemed…relieved.

_Never been one for the domestic scene, myself,_ she’d said, with a slight smile.

After that, they’d agreed to simply…let things develop, or not, depending on how they felt. Tissaia had asked for a bit of space, to think, and Yennefer had gone home for a while.

They’d met up again, for lunch. Lunch turned into a walk through the older part of the city, with its interesting landmarks, followed by early drinks which turned into dinner. Now they were walking back to the hotel, which wasn’t too far away.

They’d taken a detour through a park. It had been…nice. Without expectation. They’d talked about so much, over the course of the day—it was like meeting again, for the first time.

“So.” Tissaia placed her arm on the back of the bench, somewhat surprised at how easily the action came, how right it felt, how Yennefer slid a bit closer in response, as if this were perfectly natural. “There’s still one elephant in the room.”

Yennefer looked at her, frowning in curiosity.

“You haven’t said if you’ll actually come back to _The Post_ ,” Tissaia pointed out softly.

“Oh,” Yennefer blinked. “Well, I mean…is it a bit of a conflict, now?”

“Because of last night?”

Yennefer nodded.

Tissaia smiled, “I think I at least have enough ethical integrity left not to devolve into favoritism.”

“I was thinking more of myself, having a hard time resisting the urge to have you over your desk,” Yennefer informed her. “But sure, charges of favoritism could be an issue, too, I suppose.”

Tissaia ducked her head and blushed at the imagery.

“I also…don’t want to be stuck at a desk again,” Yennefer added softly. Tissaia looked back up, softly surprised at the concern in her expression. “I like being on the move. Do I wish I was working somewhere with a little more clout and prestige? Absolutely. Do I wish I was telling stories that meant more, that _did_ more? Absolutely. But…I don’t know how much I’m willing to sacrifice for that.”

Tissaia simply nodded in understanding. After a beat, she asked, “What if…you didn’t have to sacrifice quite so much?”

Yennefer’s eyes lit up with cautious curiosity again.

“You could freelance,” Tissaia pointed out. “You won’t be getting regular assignments, but if I needed someone to jet off on a moment’s notice, and you happened to be free…it wouldn’t be as steady or consistent as fulltime staff work, but you’d still be published by _The Post_ again. And you could…come stay in Aretuza, whenever it was time to edit your pieces.”

“Stay…with you?” Yennefer clarified quietly, eyebrows lifting in hopefulness.

Tissaia smiled and nodded. “Stay with me—if you wanted. If you didn’t, you could still come to Aretuza. It would be nice to see you, from time to time. None of this is contingent upon this...continuing between us.”

“I never thought it was,” Yennefer assured her. Then, with a smile, she added, “Though, for the record, when I come to Aretuza, I will be expecting far more than brunch at some trendy hotspot.”

“Oh there will _absolutely_ be brunch at some trendy hotspot,” Tissaia informed her. “And if you’re charming, there might be more than just that.”

“I won’t throw any coffee mugs, I promise.”

Tissaia laughed.

“Silverware, though….” Yennefer shrugged, holding out her hands in a gesture of _who knows._

She slid closer to Tissaia, who was smiling so deeply that her cheeks hurt. She leaned in, brushing her nose against Tissaia’s. She shifted a bit closer, but Tissaia pulled back slightly, just enough to prevent a kiss.

“You haven’t said—”

“Oh my gods above, _yes_.” Yennefer rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t quite find the right amount of irritation to line her tone. “I’ll do the whole freelance bit and I’ll come up to Aretuza and try not to fuck you senseless in the copy room and I absolutely _will_ fuck you senseless when we’re alone, for as long as you let me.”

Tissaia gave a sharp laugh that devolved into a hum as she finally pulled Yennefer in for a kiss.

“Excellent,” she decreed, a bit breathlessly, when they broke apart for air. “Welcome back.”

Her blue eyes were twinkling like stars. Yennefer decided she’d become a sailor, of sorts, navigating her life by those lights. She’d follow them wherever they led, for as long as she could.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Despite a rather sleepless night, Calanthe’s body was still thoroughly trained to wake before the dawn. She groaned softly, rubbing her tired face—the action immediately made the fine skin under her eyes sting, already too tight and itchy from crying. She’d woken up several times in the night to wet cheeks—even sleep would not give her respite from grief.

She felt another familiar flutter of irritation. She’d wanted to scream, to tear Eist apart with her words and pour venom into every wound—but she’d been far too hurt, still far too easily affected by the pained look on his face.

That was the worst of it. He deserved all her vitriol, and she hadn’t been able to give it—because even then, even after the betrayal, she couldn’t quite bring herself to truly strike the blow.

_His softness made you weak_ , her inner voice pointed out. Sadly, she had to agree. She rolled over, wincing and hissing at the immediate shots of pain through her body.

She still hadn’t fully recovered from the tumble in the jeep. Being thrown to the ground during the shooting hadn’t helped. Being emotionally stressed and physically exhausted certainly hadn’t sped up the healing process, either. Plus there were a few muscles that she was rather certain were strained during her time with Eist. She tried not to think about those.

With a heavy sigh, she slid out of bed as gingerly as possible. Made her way to the bathroom, to wash her face and try to make it look like she hadn’t been crying.

The phone by her bedside rang. She padded back into the room and answered.

It was Alcise. “Renfri and I have a briefing prepared, if you’re ready.”

It wasn’t really a question. Alcise knew her schedule, knew she’d be awake by now.

“Bring it up,” she decided. Normally, she’d dress and head down to Alcise’s office. But the thought of getting ready seemed insurmountable, with her current exhaustion and injuries. “It’s…a slow start for me, today.”

Alcise merely said, “See you five, your highness.”

And in five minutes, Renfri and Alcise were in the queen’s private receiving room, along with Calanthe, going over what they’d uncovered in the investigation so far. Renfri tried not to stare too openly at the sight of the Queen, still in pajamas and a robe. In all her years of service, she’d never seen the woman less than immaculately put together.

“Tirbez Vin was a part of the Shepherds site,” Alcise started with what everyone already knew. “On the day of the attack, he was contacted by someone who must also be on the site, because they used the popular sign off, _the shepherds must protect the flock_ , in their final text message to Vin.”

Renfri handed Calanthe a print out of the text exchange. With a soft sound of thanks, the Queen scanned over the page.

“So…Duny _was_ the original target,” Calanthe surmised. This had been a theory Alcise had mentioned in previous briefings, but it was still a bit surprising to see confirmed.

Alcise hummed in agreement, “But somehow, this other person also knew that you had taken his place.”

“Did they get the information from Laern?”

“No,” Renfri spoke up. “We’ve gone through Laern’s life with a fine-toothed comb. He was being blackmailed, but he never provided information—he was just told that all he had to do was step out of the way.”

Calanthe swore softly under her breath. Alcise had already found that Laern had some incident from his teen years on his record which had been expunged, thanks to some high-powered friends of his father’s, and apparently, this Shepherds group had found out, somehow dug up the records, and were threatening to expose his past. Calanthe wondered what could be worth killing a queen—or a future prince—over, but she supposed everyone had their secrets, and she couldn’t judge much on that front.

“So where are they getting the information from?” Calanthe took a moment to look at both women.

Alcise’s face twisted in an expression of frustration. “We don’t know yet. It’s…a wide net to cast. All of the palace staff and attachés, the hospital administrators who knew—we’re interviewing everyone. We’ve tried tracing the phone number that sent Tirbez the messages, but it’s a burner phone, and it’s already been turned off or destroyed. I’m trying to get website information on the Shepherds site, but apparently they’re based in Verden.”

“Verden?” Calanthe blinked at that.

“It’s a pretty smart move, actually,” Alcise pointed out. “The site owners might be Cintran, but if they put the site itself under the protection of another country’s laws, it gives them a little extra time for diplomatic run-around, if ever something like this happened and we wanted access to their records. We’re currently in talks with Verdenian authorities now.”

“But we don’t have a lot to really prove their involvement,” Renfri added. “I mean, Vin was part of the site, and the sender used a phrase common to the site, but that’s not much, in the eyes of the law.”

Calanthe hummed. It was a bit circumstantial.

“These bastards are smart,” she noted. With a light shake of her head, she quietly asked, “Why can’t we, for once, just deal with someone who’s an absolute idiot and leaves behind reams of evidence and answers?”

Renfri and Alcise both smiled wryly at that.

“Anything else?” Calanthe looked at them expectantly.

They both answered with, “No, your majesty.”

She nodded. Then took a beat to inspect Renfri’s medical boot as the younger woman rose to her feet. “You’re staying off that ankle as much as possible, yes?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“And are you actually taking your painkillers when you need them, or are you foolishly suffering through because you’re afraid they’ll take off your mental edge?” She looked up into the Renfri’s face, already knowing the answer full well.

Renfri crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not bad.”

“It’s not good, either,” Calanthe returned. She reached out, lightly popping the young woman’s hip in gentle reprimand. “Take your pills. An order, from your captain and your queen.”

Renfri smiled softly. “As you wish, your majesty.”

“I wish you’d go home and actually get some rest.”

“The sooner I find these bastards, the sooner I will do exactly that,” Renfri informed her.

“Well then, by all means, go.” Calanthe motioned to the door. She offered a small, soft smile as Renfri left the room.

Alcise waited a beat before cautiously venturing, “How’re you feeling?”

“Tired,” Calanthe answered honestly.

“You worried Pavetta a bit, last night.” Alcise kept her voice gentle, neutral. Visindra had come into their chambers last night, concerned after talking with Pavetta. Apparently Calanthe had been overly-emotional—and Pavetta hadn’t missed the fact that apparently, she’d been coming from the direction of Mr. Tuirseach’s room.

“I was tired, then, too,” Calanthe offered. “Tired and emotional. It was a lot…being away from her, during all this.”

Alcise hummed. She didn’t offer anything else. That was more Visindra’s forte, the whole emotionally-supportive role. Their family had a marked inability to be open about their feelings. Yes, she held great love and affection for her cousin, but she showed it through unwavering loyalty and keeping her protected from harm (well, _trying_ to keep her protected), not through soft talks about the state of her heart.

“Shall I send for Hille?” She asked. This was also how she showed care and concern—Hille was a bit of a mother figure to Calanthe, at times, and she knew her older sister would bring an air of comfort to Calanthe’s morning.

“Yes, please.” Calanthe winced as she rose to her feet. “But tell her to wait a half-hour. I’ve got to do some stretches first, before my body seizes up in absolute mutiny.”

Now Alcise smiled wryly. “What was it you told Renfri? Take your pills?”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Of course, your majesty.”

She heard Calanthe’s low huff in response as she made her way back into her bedroom, where a yoga mat already waited.

Alcise rose to her feet, shaking her head softly as she slipped out of the room.

Her smile quickly faded, once she left the queen’s chambers. Pavetta’s concerns, coupled with the sight of Calanthe’s face this morning, only confirmed exactly what she’d thought had happened, while Calanthe was away during Hochebuz protocol.

Her cousin had gotten herself entangled. And the process of untangling was getting a bit painful, it seemed. Alcise closed her eyes and softly reminded herself: _three more days, just three more days_.

* * *

Visindra smiled in amusement as she watched Eist Tuirseach take in the details of her office. They’d never met here before—never needed to, until now.

“This is more of another formality than anything,” she reminded him, using her brightest, most reassuring smile. He still seemed a bit tense, but…in a pained sort of way.

He really was too smart for his own good, she mused. Because he’d obviously understood the message: Cal was distancing herself from him.

Visindra hadn’t asked why (hadn’t needed to). She’d merely nodded when Cal had told her that from now on, Visindra would be handling any meetings regarding the story itself. This morning, she’d invited Mr. Tuirseach down to her office, to go over what he’d written so far.

Truth be told, he looked about as rough as Calanthe did, this morning. Tired eyes, bit of a dazed expression.

Well, at least the heartache seems to be mutual, Visindra mused. Pavetta had come to her last night, upset at seeing her mother leaving from Mr. Tuirseach’s room (or at least that general direction) in a state of obvious distress. Calanthe had told Pavetta that she was merely tired and her tears were that of relief for Pavetta’s safety, but no one really bought it.

Visindra could guess all too well what had happened. Her heart had ached at the thought.

But at least it seemed that it hadn't been a one-sided thing. Not that Visindra had ever truly thought it was—Mr. Tuirseach’s eyes had sparkled just as much as Cal's, and the little soft syrupy way he smiled when she wasn’t looking was a sure sign of a man besotted.

She felt a pang of pity. She’d rather hoped it would work out, between the two. Not in a permanent way, mind you, because Cal’s life couldn’t allow for that. But at least so that it ended amicably, a warm memory of sorts.

She gently cleared her throat and concentrated on reading the article. It was, unsurprisingly, well written. Beautifully done. With a smile, she decreed, “I’m afraid I can’t offer any criticism, constructive or otherwise, Mr. Tuirseach. Not that I’m surprised—you’ve always been an exceptional storyteller.”

He shifted slightly at that—not out of pride, but curiosity.

“And the queen?” He asked quietly. “She also…has no comments to offer?”

Oh, gods above, this man had it bad. It was evident that they’d fought, and yet he wasn’t petulant or pissed. He was just desperate to hear from her, in the slightest.

“None.” She offered a small smile. Normally, one would welcome the idea—but Mr. Tuirseach looked a little crestfallen. A bit like a kicked puppy.

He really was Cal’s polar opposite, at first glance, Visindra mused. And certainly not the usual type she went for. That was the intriguing bit about this whole affair. Whatever was happening, it was entirely unprecedented.

In a quiet corner of her heart, Visindra Tirre wondered exactly what that meant—and in turn, what this current moment of heartbreak meant, too.

* * *

Mousesack was none-too-casually leaning against the wall of the corridor, when Eist returned to his rooms after his meeting with Visindra Tirre.

“Got a little time?” The photojournalist asked. “We should probably start parsing through the photos and weeding out the ones we definitely don’t want to use.”

Eist nodded in agreement, following Mousesack into his chambers, where he had his own desk, laptop already open and ready. They sat side by side, going through the photos, one by one.

They finally reached the day of the dress fitting. The photo of Calanthe, smiling so beautifully, was already removed, but Eist knew exactly where it should have been, in the line up—and he remembered it, in excruciating detail. The softness of her smile, the joy radiating from her expressive eyes. The way her right hand rested against her abdomen, as if physically holding herself back from simply rushing over to her daughter.

She’d repeated that same action last night, but in an entirely different context—when he’d moved towards her and she’d skittered away, obviously frightened. Her hand had covered her stomach, as if shielding herself from him.

His throat tightened and his eyes burned at the memory. That was their last moment alone together—her frightened and distrustful, him shattered and shaken.

Mousesack carefully slid his gaze over to his friend. His suspicions were instantly confirmed.

He’d heard the queen’s voice, last night. A single, sharp yell. _Don’t_. Followed by the sound of Eist’s bedroom door opening and closing again, a few moments later.

This morning, he’d seen Eist’s haggard expression and his muted spirits, and he'd known for certain a fight of some sort had taken place. Add that in with the oddness surrounding Eist since his return yesterday morning, and it had all the signs of an affair gone sour.

How the man had been foolish enough to get tangled up with the queen, Mousesack didn’t rightly know. He’d been watching this trainwreck develop in slow motion, and hoping that he was wrong, every step of the way. It was mystifying—mainly because it was evident that it wasn’t a one-sided thing, and both parties had to know how impossible the relationship would be.

Eist Tuirseach was a risk-taker, and Mousesack had witnessed him do some rather daring things, over the years. But every risk had been calculated, and every daring thing had been worth the risk. This…was something entirely different. Somehow, Eist had seen this risk as worth it, in some way. Though Mousesack couldn’t imagine why. Sure, the queen was fair of face, but she wasn’t exactly the sort that won a man over with her charm and kindness.

_To each his own_ , Mousesack mused, clicking through more photos and refocusing on the task at-hand. He wasn’t entirely surprised that it had ended in a fight. That would have been a pretty easy prediction to make, after knowing the queen for all of five minutes.

Still, it was a bit disconcerting, seeing his old friend so morose. Eist didn’t dwell on failed affairs. He shrugged and moved on—after all, it was always a matter of time. _Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar_ _—_ they used the phrase in their toasts, at the end and beginning of every assignment together. _Something ends, something begins._ Eist often said it whenever he ended yet another fling with yet another woman. For him, it was the way of life—and with their life, that was the only true outcome for most romantic relationships.

Apparently, this was the exception. Because Eist wasn’t simply shrugging and moving on. He was _affected_. Deeply.

Mousesack frowned and continued clicking through photos.

* * *

After last night, Pavetta was even more concerned when Hille informed her that her mother was not in her office for the day, but rather working from her private chambers. Supposedly, it was due to still being quite sore from her multiple sets of injuries over the past week.

Pavetta wasn’t sure she bought the excuse. So she quietly slipped into her mother’s chambers, after no one answered her knock. Moved through the dark and quiet receiving room, through the second set of doors, into her mother’s bedroom.

Calanthe was lying down in bed, forearm draped over her eyes. When she heard Pavetta enter, she sat up, wincing immediately at the small movement.

“What is it, darling?” She was concerned, as soon as she saw Pavetta’s face.

“Nothing,” Pavetta assured her. “I just…I heard you were unwell.”

Her mother smiled softly. “Just old, I’m afraid.”

Pavetta huffed at that. Calanthe patted the space next to her, and Pavetta slipped out of her shoes, crawling across the mattress to lay beside her mother.

“Are you really alright?” She asked softly.

Her mother settled back against the pillow, keeping her gaze on the ceiling. “I will be. And that’s what counts.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“I have pain medication, a heating pad, and more water than a human could possibly drink in a day, thanks to your godmother,” Calanthe drawled. “I’m quite set.”

Her hand blindly reached over, lightly patting Pavetta’s. “But thank you.”

Pavetta merely settled into the stillness, closing her eyes and listening to the steady pull of her mother’s breathing.

After a long pause, Calanthe asked, “What did you need? You must have come looking for me, to find out I was in here.”

“Nothing.” Pavetta shook her head slightly. “It was…honeymoon stuff. It can wait.”

“Please tell me it’s not another nude beach.” Calanthe closed her eyes against the thought.

Her daughter laughed softly. “No. We’ve given up on the idea. I realized it’s going to be absolutely boiling, heading further south at the height of summer. And I’m not really one for the heat.”

Calanthe hummed in agreement. Neither of them was well-suited for high temperatures.

“So,” Pavetta took a little breath, hesitating. Calanthe immediately knew she wouldn’t like what came next. “We’d been…discussing things with Mr. Tuirseach and Mr. Moussek—and it seems like the Skelligen archipelago would be a beautiful place to go, in the summer.”

Calanthe’s stomach seized and twisted. Still, she kept her tone impossibly neutral, “Oh?”

“Yes.” Pavetta was still trying to gauge her reaction. “And—it would be a lesser security risk. We’d hire a boat and crew and just travel the islands. Do a little snorkeling, maybe a picnic or two on a beach somewhere.”

“Sounds lovely,” Calanthe decreed in a whisper.

“So…that’s a yes?”

“My darling, it’s your honeymoon. You don’t need my permission—in fact, I’d prefer to be as uninvolved in that particular area as possible.”

Pavetta laughed at that, half from amusement, half from relief. Still, she could sense the slight unease in her mother’s frame. Gently, she tested again. “Would it…be improper, if I asked Mr. Tuirseach for some…help? Just in finding a good crew and such. It’s such short notice—”

“I think Hille and Triss can more than manage such details,” Calanthe pointed out. She reached over again, lightly squeezing Pavetta’s hand. “You have to remember to trust your ladies. When you rely on outsiders, it gets…complicated.”

Pavetta took a beat to study her mother’s face. Calanthe’s eyes were currently closed, but her brows were quirked into an almost-sorrowful expression.

“Complicated how?” She asked quietly.

Her mother sighed. “It…blurs the lines. You have to have a clear outline of whom to trust. And that circle has to stay small. You can…be friendly with those outside the circle, but always, always remember _exactly_ where the line is. If I teach you nothing else, my darling, let it be this: always, always remember where the line is.”

There was something…almost heartbroken about her tone. It made Pavetta feel a bit frightened. She’d never seen her mother quite so vulnerable. Not even at the death of her father. But then again, Pavetta had been younger then; she supposed Calanthe had put on a brave face, for her.

Pavetta leaned in and kissed her mother’s temple. Calanthe was smiling softly when she pulled away.

“You’d best let Hille know your decision,” Calanthe said quietly. “It’s a tight turn around, but I’m sure she can arrange a wonderful trip.”

Pavetta nodded in agreement, quickly scooting off the edge of the bed again.

And because she couldn’t resist, she announced, “We’ll probably still go skinny-dipping off the side of the boat, every single day. Just so you know.”

“I cherish every minute of the eleven hours of labor required to bring you into this world,” her mother drawled in the most unenthused tone. “The unending delight you bring is reward enough.”

Pavetta laughed. Even without looking back, she could sense her mother’s wry grin. Good. She was a little happier than when Pavetta had found her.

Still. She was rather certain it wasn’t sore muscles that kept her mother locked away—but rather an over-tender heart.

And later that evening, when she saw Mr. Tuirseach at dinner, she knew beyond all doubt.

So after dinner, she quietly made her way to Visindra’s office.

“How did you know?” She asked, once she was seated in front of her godmother’s desk and the door was fully closed. Noting Visindra’s look of confusion, she clarified, “You…basically predicted that Mother and Mr. Tuirseach would end up like this—how did you know?”

Visindra winced slightly, but she didn’t deny it—further proof that Pavetta was absolutely right, she hadn’t imagined it.

“Your mother’s life is…complicated.” Visindra’s voice was soft. “It’s part of the whole royal package, I’m afraid.”

“So she can’t ever be happy?”

Visindra sighed, “Of course she can. Happiness doesn’t come from other people, duckling. She’s been happy before; she’ll be happy again.”

“Be that as it may, you can’t deny that she’s far happier when Mr. Tuirseach is around—at least until last night.”

Visindra pressed her lips into a thin line. No, she couldn’t deny it. Still, she pointed out the truth, “Mr. Tuirseach presents a unique set of obstacles, given his position as a member of the press in general, and his assignment to write about you in particular. Your mother enjoyed a bit of fun, but that’s all. Regardless of what she’s feeling now, she knows this is for the best.”

“The best,” Pavetta repeated softly. Then she looked up again, face lined with curiosity. “Tell me. In all the years you’ve known my mother, has she ever smiled at anyone else, the way she smiled at him?”

The answer struck Visindra like a bolt of lightning. She didn’t have to say anything—Pavetta merely gave a small, soft nod, as if she understood.

The young woman rose to her feet again. “I remember our discussion, and I’ll hold to it—I won’t embarrass her, or do anything to untoward. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to do something about this. And you can rant and rave and forbid me all you like, but I’m doing it anyway.”

Visindra warred between irritation and amusement. Quietly, she decreed, “You are your mother’s child, my dear.”

Pavetta merely smiled as she disappeared out the door.

“Pavetta!” Visindra called out. That familiar blonde head reappeared. With a quick breath to steel herself, she asked, “What, exactly, are you planning to do?”

* * *

Since there had been no photos taken that day, there was no need to meet with the queen to review said photos. Eist wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. It certainly wouldn’t hurt, having another evening to prepare himself before seeing her again.

He’d barely closed the door to his chambers after dinner when a soft knock had him turning back again.

It was Mousesack, looking a bit uneasy. Wordlessly, Eist let him into the room, closing the door behind them again.

“So…are you—at the beginning of all this, you mentioned doing a…second, secret piece.” Mousesack was grimacing slightly, as if he was aware of exactly how touchy this subject was at the moment (not that Eist was surprised, the man never missed a trick, it was part of why he was such an excellent photographer). “And…I don’t know if you still are, but this whole time, I’ve been…also taking photos for that piece.”

“What?” Eist blinked.

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you publish a groundbreaking story without equally groundbreaking pics,” Mousesack said simply, as if that answered everything. “So I…also secretly took photos of the queen.”

“How?” Eist was still trying to process the whole thing.

“My shutter doesn’t make a sound, remember?” Mousesack prompted. Of course, Eist thought dazedly. The photojournalist continued, “And…my camera has two memory card slots. I just…switched over to the second one, before taking a photo for the second piece. And I always just removed it, before we went in for our meetings with the queen.”

“You brilliant bastard.” Eist was impressed. He also wasn’t sure if it violated the terms of their agreement with the queen.

Not that it mattered—the photos would never get published, just like the second, secret story.

“So…like I said,” Mousesack shifted a bit, pulling out a small memory card from his pocket and holding it up. “I don’t know if you’re still doing the story, but if you are...”

Eist considered for a moment, then reached for the memory card.

* * *

It took another half-hour of pacing his room alone before Eist had the courage to finally look at the photos.

His heart instantly seized in a mixture of affection and heartache. Calanthe, hesitating at the door during Pavetta’s dress fitting. Calanthe, talking to Pavetta before the women’s council meeting. Reaching out to hold Pavetta’s hand, just before entering the room. Calanthe, leaned forward, expression furrowed in extreme concentration as she lined up a shot in bocce, barefoot on the pitch. Calanthe in mid-laugh with Visindra that same night, her smile so wide that her eyes were mere slits of joy. Calanthe in the desert, frowning slightly with her shades on, hands on her hips and glancing away as she chatted with General Amurra. Calanthe at the children’s hospital, during her conversation with the little boy who’d said she looked like a bunny.

Eist realized that Mousesack, regardless of his original intent in taking the photos, had also been a bit swayed. Even in the more serious photos, Calanthe looked indescribably…human. Relatable. Not some tenacious tyrant or untouchable queen. A leader, yes, but multi-faceted and multi-dimensional.

The last photo was the one of her talking to the little boy at the children’s hospital. Eist knew that he was just outside the frame, just in the shadows. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—being a part of a secret history that not even Calanthe would acknowledge, after this.

The photo was their last moment before catalyst, Eist realized. They’d had their quiet little agreement, over all the things that could never happen, could never be, the night before in her office. Within five hours of that photo, he would be in his rental flat, physically holding her in his arms as they fell asleep together, every barrier between them completely removed. Within less than five hours, their world would turn on a dime—and all the things that could never happen did happen, and all that could never be did exist, in full glorious detail.

And now, in another flash-quick turn, it was over, he thought with a heavy sigh.

He looked at the photo again. His heart ached at the sight of the sapphire necklace, resting against her collarbone. The same necklace currently still stashed in the desk drawer, just inches away.

_This is how it ends_ , he thought. _Quiet and painful and small._

Nothing like the actual memory. It was a roaring, joyful, larger-than-life thing. Even now, he didn’t regret it.

He regretted some things. Like the way he’d let his own fears push him into holding back in the face of a woman who seemed incapable of doing so. She deserved better, he thought. Deserved someone who was bold and unapologetic in declaring their feelings, who didn’t let her side-step behind excuses and masks. Someone who was unflinchingly honest, who made her feel safe enough to be the same.

_But can you be that someone?_ His inner voice asked.

Only one way to find out, he decided.


	30. One Good Reason

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

The day started out oddly overcast, with thick grey clouds blown in from the sea occasionally releasing small smatterings of rain, hardly enough to be worthy of the name. The humidity was even higher, and the heat did not let up.

It felt a bit like breathing water, Mousesack decided. Thankfully today’s event was moved indoors.

They were back in the queen’s private drawing room, where the dress fitting had taken place, though the queen was certainly nowhere in sight. Instead, it was Pavetta, Hille, Triss, and the young women who would be Pavetta’s attendants during tomorrow’s wedding.

Fringilla and Coral were familiar faces, thanks to the night of bocce ball. Mousesack also got to meet Hille’s daughters, Hacira and Ravenna, whom he’d heard quite a bit about by now. There was also Niphanna, another cousin from King Roegner’s side of the family.

The women were going over last-minute details and getting a final run-down on protocol and security measures for tomorrow’s wedding and tonight’s feast. Pavetta, already well-versed in the whole thing, merely shifted away, coming to stand next to Mousesack quietly.

Delicately, she asked in a low tone, “How is Mr. Tuirseach?”

Eist was currently propped against the window sill, just as he’d been during the dress fitting, chatting quietly with Hille occasionally. Triss was managing the details with the attendants, and doing quite well, Mousesack thought. He and Eist had a theory that she was being groomed to step in as one of Pavetta’s first ladies-in-waiting—if that were true, she’d do admirably in her position.

“He is…well, your highness.” Mousesack chose his words carefully, but still tried to be as truthful as possible. Pavetta was a dear thing; she only asked out of genuine concern, he could tell.

“Truly?” She prodded, tone lined with a sense of knowing. Then again, the dark rims under Eist’s eyes and the stubble across his cheek was plain to see.

“He will be,” Mousesack corrected quietly.

The princess gave a smile that was both sad and warm. “That’s exactly what my mother said, too. When I asked if she was alright.”

Ah. So Pavetta was aware of the situation, too, in some way.

She was watching Mousesack with an almost-overpowering sense of curiosity. “Mr. Moussek, I don’t wish to put you on the spot, but…tell me, has he ever been this way before?”

“Absolutely not,” Mousesack answered before he could truly decide if he should.

Pavetta hummed. Quietly, she admitted, “Neither has my mother.”

“Forgive me, your highness—but should we be discussing this matter?” Mousesack kept his tone gentle, completely devoid of judgment.

“Perhaps not,” Pavetta answered easily. “But since those two evidently are not, someone should. Before it’s too late.”

With that, she slowly gravitated back towards the center of the room.

Mousesack considered her words. He’d known that whatever this was, it was completely exceptional in regards to Eist’s usual affairs. Now he knew that it was equally exceptional for the queen.

He thought back to the photos—the ones he hadn’t shared with Eist, because he didn’t want to further wound his friend’s obviously aching heart.

He looked over at Eist, currently talking to Hille. He looked a bit better today, but not by much. More than anything, Mousesack suspected the man was putting on a brave face.

 _Before it’s too late_. Pavetta’s words echoed in his mind. The wedding was tomorrow. After that, they’d pack up and head out.

Mousesack wouldn’t push him to do anything, of course. He couldn’t—and even if he could, absolutely wouldn’t—make that decision for his friend.

But he could…ensure Eist had all the information at his disposal, before he made such a decision, before it was too late. Wasn’t that what a good friend did?

* * *

Visindra cast a critical eye over her queen, who was currently sat at her desk and thoroughly focused on the docket in front of her. Calanthe had returned to her office today, but Visindra was rather certain it was more an act of avoidance than anything—because Mr. Tuirseach was currently in her private drawing room, far too close to her actual chambers.

She thought of Pavetta’s words, from the evening before. When they’d spent the weekend in the desert, Visindra had gently wondered at how no one else had ever made Cal quite this adorably charmed before. And now, she also realized that it had been ages since she’d seen her friend this heartbroken, too. This was deep, far beyond the mere flirtation that Visindra had first assumed it to be.

Of course, Cal being Cal, she’d suffer in absolute silence and never open up—at least not without some prompting.

So Visindra quietly spoke up, “I met with Mr. Tuirseach yesterday.”

Cal merely hummed. Of course, she knew that, already.

“He asked about you.”

That made the queen stop and look up, eyebrows lifting in a mixture of hope and apprehension.

 _Oh, my girl,_ Visindra realized. _You’ve got it bad. Worse than I thought._

Cal always favored directness, so Visindra simply asked, in a gentle tone, “What the hell happened there?”

Her friend blinked quickly. Didn’t answer right away.

“Cal,” Visindra leaned forward, keeping her gaze locked on the woman. She didn’t say the rest—that a blind man could see the sparks between her and Mr. Tuirseach, and that it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what had happened, when they were off in Hochebuz-protocol-induced lockdown (also, she knew her friend all too well—Calanthe Fiona Riannon wasn’t one to leave a stone unturned, and she’d definitely wanted to turn that stone). She didn’t have to. When you’ve known someone for over a quarter of a century, some things can go without saying.

Calanthe sighed, glanced away. Brusquely, she admitted, “It was…lovely. Then he lied.”

“About what?” Visindra was instantly curious.

“Doesn’t matter. He lied.”

Visindra huffed. Calanthe sighed.

The truth was, she wanted to tell Visindra everything. Wanted someone else to share the awful burden. But it was also painful, saying it all out loud. Still, as always, for Visindra, she tried.

“I found an article. Not the piece he’s supposed to be writing—one entirely about me.”

“Ah,” Visindra suddenly understood. It went against the terms of their agreement, both professionally and personally.

“He swore it wasn’t going to be published. Just that it was…for me.” Something odd caught in her voice, and she looked away. Visindra knew there was something deeper there.

“For you how?” She prompted gently.

“A surprise, of sorts,” Calanthe said in a small voice.

Visindra frowned in mild confusion. “How exactly is an article a surprise?”

Calanthe gave a light sigh and clarified, “He said that…he wanted me to know that he saw me. That it was a bit more…like a love letter.”

“That actually sounds rather sweet,” Visindra admitted gently.

Calanthe pressed her lips together. _Perhaps, if you hadn’t read what it said._

“Wait.” Visindra sat up. “You’re telling me that you ended it because he lied about a _surprise_?”

Calanthe wished it were that simple. Still, she stuck to her excuse. “A lie is a lie.”

“Fucking Mother of Mine, absolutism will be the death of you.”

Calanthe blinked at that.

“I’m not saying you aren’t justified.” Visindra held up her hands. “Seeing as I don’t _know_ what exactly happened and there is obviously more that you’re not sharing, for whatever reason. But I _am_ saying that…rigid adherence to an idea doesn’t work with humans. We’re…mutable. And I am absolutely saying that if that man was simply surprising you with a gift and you genuinely ended it because he technically lied to you about it—you are an absolute fucking idiot, Calanthe Fiona Riannon.”

Calanthe let out a low breath. Visindra merely crossed her arms over her chest. A heavy beat passed.

“If you were anyone else, I’d throw you out,” Calanthe pointed out.

“Thank goodness I’m me, then.”

The corner of Calanthe’s mouth flickered, a flash, a ghost of a wry smirk. Then her expression turned sorrowful. “It’s just…the article. It wasn’t…flattering.”

“Good. You’ve never liked flattery. Was it true?”

“I suppose.” Now Visindra understood the actual reason for the falling out. Calanthe had gotten her feelings hurt—it wasn’t the existence of the article that truly bothered her, but rather whatever was contained within it.

“I just….” Cal looked away again, taking a hard swallow. “I feel…so much, and I thought…I thought I was seen. That it was mutual. But the things he wrote….”

Her hand came up, fingertips lightly covering her mouth. Her dark eyes were lost in thought. Visindra gave her a moment before gently prompting, “Well, what did he say about it?”

Calanthe felt a ripple down her spine. She already knew Visindra’s reaction before she confessed, “That there was more to it than what I read. That he also saw…good things, too.”

“So this man confessed that he saw you more completely than most people ever will, and what did you do?” Visindra’s tone was lined with knowing.

Calanthe closed her eyes softly. Eist had confessed more than just seeing her— _Calanthe, I…I love you._ She’d heard the absolute earnestness in his tone, and her heart had instantly known it was absolute truth, had known long before the actual words were spoken.

_And what did you do?_

“It doesn’t matter.” She shook her head, waving away the entire discussion. “Those bridges are thoroughly burned, thanks to my absolutism.”

She didn’t look over at Visindra—she didn’t need to. She could feel her friend’s pained expression, all the way across the desk.

Quietly, Visindra pointed out, “It seems to matter a great deal, to you.”

 _He does_ , Calanthe thought sadly. She’d spent the past twenty-four hours convincing herself that she’d done the right thing, that she’d been the one in the right, and three minutes of discussion with Visindra had torn down all her defenses.

She never should have left his room, she thought. She should have stayed. She should have listened. She should have said _yes_ , and let him explain. Instead she’d been biting and hurtful, she’d treated him unforgivably, and she’d abandoned him.

_You never made it easy to love you._

That was the main reason for her current path of avoidance. She knew she’d pulled every star from his eyes, and the next time he looked at her, it would be with regret and loathing. The mere thought of seeing such an expression on his face was enough to make her cry.

“Cal.” Her friend’s voice was soft, kinder than she deserved. “Cal, my darling, I’m going to say something a bit harsh, and I need you to just hear what I’m saying and not how I’m saying it.”

Calanthe pressed her lips together in a thin line and waited for judgment.

“You have always enjoyed the safety of the unattainable. Wanting things you can’t possibly have, because there’s safety in knowing you won’t ever get them and somehow ruin them. But at some point, you have to be brave and reach for the things that _are_ attainable—and more than willing to be attained, by the looks of it. Particularly when they seem to bring you a happiness that I have not seen within you, in a very long time.”

Now Calanthe looked over at her dearest friend, whose blue eyes were lined with unshed tears.

“Be brave,” Visindra prompted again.

Calanthe’s throat tightened. Oh, how she wished she could. But all the bravery in the world couldn’t unbreak what she’d broken.

She tried to explain, “I said…terrible things.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Visindra agreed without missing a beat. “I’m sure that little temper of yours got downright feral. And yes, I can tell you that it definitely hurt him—I saw the aftermath with my own two eyes. But I can also see that he still loves you, and sometimes, that really is all that matters.”

Calanthe blinked rapidly at that, as if being handed a divine revelation.

Visindra had to smile at her friend’s naivete. “Cal. I have been married to your cousin for over a decade—happily, most of the time, but not always. And I have loved her for far longer than that. Do you honestly think we haven’t said some terrible things to each other? Do you think it hasn’t been work, true work, sometimes? We’ve hit bumps and we’ve hit crossroads, and every time, we’ve had to decide whether or not it was worth continuing. We've had to do the hard work of admitting our faults and failings, and mending the rifts to become something stronger, something better. We've had to actively choose each other, time and again. Because at some point, you just decide: fuck it, this is my person, and there isn’t anyone else in the whole wide world that I’d rather have at my side, even when sometimes I’d rather strangle them than look at them.”

Calanthe smiled softly at the last bit. Yes, she was often well-aware when Visindra and Alcise were in disagreement over something—and yes, it often seemed like murder-suicide might be imminent.

Visindra smiled as well, tilting her head to the side a bit as she quietly decreed, “Just…fuck it, Cal. Fuck pride, fuck whatever hurt feelings have allowed this misunderstanding, fuck all the little voices that are giving a thousand excuses for why this won’t work out—because there are _always_ reasons why, and they’re usually good ones. But all you need is one good reason to ignore them.”

Cal’s eyebrows lifted in silent askance.

“Love,” Visindra supplied. She watched her friend mentally digest the idea. Yes, Calanthe loved this man, she knew for certain. And obviously, she’d accepted that fact long before now—she’d just forgotten that it was the only one that mattered, in the face of whatever else.

“But…” Calanthe’s voice was slow, hesitant. She looked up at Visindra again. “Pavetta.”

She didn’t have to clarify—Visindra knew all too well. If she had to guess, she’d wager Geralt’s upcoming reappearance hadn’t helped Calanthe’s nerves or her temper, in her dealings with Mr. Tuirseach.

With a soft sigh, she admitted, “That’s a choice you’re going to have to make. Do you need him to know? Do you trust him to know? And if not, can you let things continue, without him knowing?”

Calanthe considered the question for a beat. She obviously still didn’t have an answer.

So Visindra changed subjects easily, shifting in her seat and glancing back down at the folder in her hands. “Now. Alcise has been on the phone with Verden for a while, trying to get records on the Shepherds’ site. It looks like, more than anything, it’s going to take a personal phone call from you, to the Chancellor’s office, to make it happen. We don’t want to go that full throttle until we exhaust every other option, so we’ll keep you posted. In other news, the speech writers are already working on this year’s ascension speech.”

Calanthe nodded, still reeling from the change in pace.

Visindra merely smiled softly again. Cal always needed time to process, before making a decision. She also needed a break—when it came to heart-to-hearts, Cal was a sprinter, not a long-distance runner.

Still, Visindra could tell that her words were still being replayed in her friend’s mind. With a hopeful flutter, she prayed they actually took root.

* * *

Mousesack took a deep breath as he removed the flashdrive from his laptop. He and Eist had retreated to their respective rooms after lunch, taking some time to relax and prepare for tonight’s feast at the High Hall. It had seemed like the perfect time to collect the photos he’d put in an unmarked folder on his desktop.

He still wasn’t entirely sure that this was the right decision. He thought of Pavetta’s soft, sad smile. She’d never do anything to intentionally hurt someone, the gentle child. He trusted her, he realized, perhaps more than he should.

 _Something ends, something begins_ , his mind repeated. This whole situation had been entirely new, in many ways. Mousesack wasn’t sure what it meant or how it would eventually pan out. But if something did end, and something new did begin…well, that was the way of it, wasn’t it?

 _Are you helping end something, or begin something?_ He wondered. Didn’t know. Didn’t know which answer would be better, or worse.

He rose to his feet and practically bolted across the hall, knocking on Eist’s door before he could convince himself to retreat.

He nearly threw the flashdrive into Eist’s hand as soon as the man opened the door. “I didn’t give you every photo, exactly, last night. I’m not sure you’ll actually want to see them, but…I suppose that’s up to you.”

Eist looked at him curiously.

Mousesack clarified. “There were…times when, in order to capture a facet of the queen’s personality, it meant having you in the shot. For context.”

Understanding washed over Eist’s face. “Oh.”

“Like I said—you may not want to see them.”

“Thank you,” Eist said simply. Mousesack still didn’t know exactly how Eist felt about the revelation.

“Right. I’m gonna…go finish these other edits.” Mousesack motioned over his shoulder. Eist merely nodded, looking down at the flashdrive like it was some kind of key to a hidden world.

It was, in a way, Mousesack supposed. He quickly retreated back to his rooms, where he agonized over his actions for quite a while.

* * *

This time, Eist didn’t hesitate. He closed the door and went straight to his laptop. He wasn’t sure what had prompted Mousesack to hand over the photos, but he was desperate to see what had made his friend hesitate in sharing them in the first place.

He pulled up the flashdrive’s files and clicked on the first photo.

It was their first day in the desert. Calanthe was already standing on the runner to her racing jeep, helmet in hand as she grinned back at Eist, who was grinning just as deeply. Eist immediately understood why these photos had been withheld—the attraction and the chemistry were undeniable, even with them both wearing shades and at a distance from the camera.

The next photo was them returning, after the wreck. Eist was looking away, asking Alcise to call the medic. Calanthe was looking at him, expression soft and wanting. His hand was still on the small of her back, still holding her, in some way. Even then, even that early on, they looked…right, together. Fitted.

The next went back in time, slightly, to the night of the bocce game. Calanthe taking a sip of her drink, looking straight across at him. He was holding his own drink and smiling softly. Of course, he’d been aware of how searing the gaze was (he’d been the recipient of it, after all), but from the side, he could also see the amusement curling around the creases of her eyes and the corner of her mouth.

Then it was a shot of them comparing the distance between two balls, during the final match. Or rather, Eist was comparing the distance. Calanthe was watching him with an amused, open-mouthed grin.

Back to the desert. They were walking side by side on their final walk before returning to the real world. Calanthe was a few steps ahead, and Eist could see the slight wave of sadness in his own expression, in the set of his shoulders—he’d been busy quietly accepting the end of something potentially lovely. Calanthe’s head was dipped forward slightly, lips pressed into a thin line. She, too, was pushing back a sense of mourning.

There were two photos from the children’s hospital. One, Calanthe leaned up against the wall, grinning in a sly, knowing way as she looked at Eist, whose gaze was focused on the children in front of them. The second was Calanthe talking to the boy who’d said she looked like a bunny, while Eist watched her in soft amusement, the adoration palpable in every line of his face.

And then, one final photo. Also from the children’s hospital. Eist let out a slow, soft breath. Sometimes he forgot just how calm under fire Mousesack could be.

It was in the moments after the attack began. Obviously Mousesack was being led away by Danek, but he was still able to get a clear, albeit chaotic and slightly off-kilter shot: Eist, arms around Calanthe, pulling her to the ground as glass shattered everywhere.

But the photo revealed a detail that hadn’t registered, amidst the chaos.

Calanthe’s hands were gripping his shirt, balled into fists. He might be pulling her down, but she was practically throwing him to the floor as well. Trying to move him out of harm’s way, just as desperately. She kept her back fully turned to the gunman, the fear in her big, expressive eyes palpable as she focused solely on Eist’s face.

He thought back to the moment. It had been so fast, an absolute blur. His only thought had been pulling her to safety. He hadn’t registered the positions of their bodies, or how they got to the ground. He hadn’t been aware of exactly how vulnerable she’d made herself, instinctively trying to shield him.

That woman, he thought softly. That noble, fearsome, fearful woman. He’d already decided that he was going to try to mend things between them (the _how_ still being a rather large issue), but this only strengthened his resolve.

 _I’ll fight for you,_ he promised. This time, he wouldn’t let fear and hesitation hold him back. She’d meet him, if only he stepped out—he knew, he hoped, he prayed. Looking back, he realized that while she was often the one who pushed things forward physically, when it came to acts of emotion, she followed his lead.

He hoped beyond all measure that this time, it would hold true again.

He closed his laptop and went to work, pacing around the room. He had a speech to prepare—he’d see her at the feast tonight, he knew for certain. He’d find a way to speak to her. He would have one shot, he knew, and he would make it count.

* * *

**The High Hall at the Temple of Modron, Cintra.**

Calanthe smoothed her hands down the front of her fitted bodice as she walked down the narrow side corridor.

 _Eist_. He was already here, in the high hall, she knew. In less than thirty seconds, she’d see him. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Visindra’s words had stayed with her all day. After their discussion, Calanthe had taken a walk alone in the garden, trying to clear her head.

More than anything, she wanted Visindra to be right. She wanted to believe that she could overcome her own self, that Eist could somehow forgive her unforgivable actions, that the impossibility of their situation could somehow work out.

In the end, she had realized that none of that mattered. Not truly.

Because she did love him. Even now. And soon, he’d be gone from her life for good, no matter how much she dreamt of an alternate ending. And because she loved him, her driving force was simply easing any pain that she had caused, regardless of how it affected her.

He deserved an apology. Deserved to be met with humility and honesty. Deserved to know that it wasn’t his fault—if after everything, he still saw all those awful qualities within her, then it was simply because they did exist. How could she punish him for seeing the truth, and being truthful about what he saw?

Most of her life, Calanthe had understood that the majority of people she met would never truly see her whole self. Partially because the glamour of royal life made reality a bit hazy; partially because she’d almost always kept bits of her self hidden away intentionally. Eist Tuirseach had blazed into her world and almost immediately became a marked exception.

 _And what did you do?_ Visindra’s voice prompted again. She’d been met with the thing that she’d supposedly craved, and what had she done? Punished it for existing.

It wasn’t fair. Calanthe generally wasn’t noted for her fairness (nor did she truly possess much of such a quality, she could admit), but she knew Eist deserved better.

He deserved far better than her, in general. But most importantly, in this moment, he deserved better _from_ her. Regardless of how he chose to react, she would apologize.

It would be hell. And she would endure. For him alone, she would.

Visindra sidled up to her again, pulling her back gently, just before they went through the door.

“It looks like you’re going to have to talk to Verden,” she admitted quietly.

“Now?” Calanthe felt a light flutter of irritation. She hated how this entire situation continued to bleed into what should be one of the happiest times of Pavetta’s life.

“Not right this second, no,” Visindra clarified. “We’re on standby, waiting for the Chancellor to finish his nightly briefing.”

Calanthe sighed and merely nodded. A queen’s duties were never done—not even on the night before her daughter’s wedding. Besides, she knew they’d exhausted every other option before this.

She breezed into the high hall, and instantly, her eyes found him. Her throat tightened and her mouth went dry—he was absolutely striking, in his sleek navy suit with stark white shirt and his slightly tousled hair (he’d been worrying over something, running his fingers through his hair, she could tell, she knew him well enough now to know this), and he was looking straight at her, expression still tinged with indescribable softness.

She almost burst into tears of shock and relief, upon seeing his expression. It shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be directed at her, and yet ( _and yet and yet and yet_ ), here it was.

 _He deserves the world_ , she thought numbly. After her awful words and her cruel actions, he still looked at her with such kindness. He deserved far more than she could ever give, and it made her want to give everything.

* * *

Eist knew he was outright staring, but he didn’t give a damn. Calanthe had swanned into the room with her usual flair, her dress for the evening a lovely novelty—a juxtaposition of her usual attire, her dress featured a fitted bodice with a loose calf-length skirt that swished and swirled with every movement. It made her sudden stop all the more pronounced when she spotted him, her hem rippling around her legs like the eddy of a whirlpool, almost as if the heavy fabric might drag her under.

Her hand came up to her stomach again. Shielding or holding herself back, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He simply offered a small smile. Her brows lifted slightly, expression almost hopeful.

That small action made Eist's heart soar. She wasn't angry, though she was perhaps still a bit afraid (gods above, he understood—even now, even with such positive signs before him, he was terrified of what could come next). She wasn't shutting him out emotionally. She was simply...there. Open, in a way. Waiting. 

Suddenly, he simply knew. He would find his chance to speak to her, and she would listen. He knew it, beyond all doubt, as if it were written in the stars, carved in stone. If he could be brave enough to reach out, she'd gladly take his hand. They'd find their way again.

It would happen, he told himself. He would move heaven and earth and take on hell itself, to make it so. 

Calanthe recovered and moved forward again, stopping to greet a few people before making her way to the center of the head table, where Duny and Pavetta sat.

Still, she glanced his way, as often as the moment would allow. She was still trying to read him, Eist realized. Still gauging his reaction, as if every time she looked up, she was afraid his expression had changed.

 _Nope, still here_ , he thought, when she hugged Pavetta and took a moment to let her gaze slide back to him.

She dipped her head and looked away again.

The high priest walked up, and she delicately stepped to the side to properly greet him. She never gave the hallmarks of being a particularly religious person, but Eist noted that she still approached the man with a great sense of respect.

The high priest motioned to another young man, who stepped forward to bow stiffly before the queen.

He seemed familiar, Eist thought. His facial features were quite distinct, and Eist was certain he’d seen them before. He was dressed in the black robes of the priesthood, so perhaps Eist had seen him at the investiture, or the bann reading.

Either way, he seemed quite charmed by the queen, smiling and nodding along with whatever she was saying. Calanthe offered a demure smile as she tilted her head towards the far end of the hall, where a stage and sound system had been set up, along with a small dance floor which Pavetta and her friends would surely invade, before the night was over.

Soon Calanthe disengaged from the conversation, coming to take a seat beside Pavetta as the dinner began. She quite studiously avoided Eist’s gaze at that point.

Eist and Mousesack were at a smaller table, with Triss, Fringilla, and Hille’s two daughters, Hacira and Ravenna, who must have resembled their father, although they’d both inherited Hille’s cracking sense of humor.

Eist noted that the young priest was seated at the main table, along with the high priest. He’d seen Fringilla talking to the young man earlier, so he quietly leaned over and asked, “The younger one, he seems familiar to me. Where would I possibly know him from?”

Fringilla blinked as she considered the question. Then, with a slight shrug, provided the same answers he’d already thought. “He was at the investiture for sure. You might have seen him at the bann reading—Brother Cahir is the unofficial right-hand man of the high priest.”

Eist merely nodded in understanding. That was it, then. He must have seen the man at some point and simply remembered the face.

He let his gaze slide further down the table. Calanthe was saying something to Pavetta, smiling softly. From seemingly nowhere, Visindra appeared, leaning over her shoulder to whisper in her ear. Calanthe nodded, offered one last comment to Pavetta, patting her daughter’s shoulder as she rose to her feet and slipped out a side door.

She swished by Brother Cahir, who followed her movements with rapt attention.

But this time, Eist didn’t see congenial charm in his expression. There was a flash of barely-concealed sense of seething, as if he was using every ounce of willpower to keep from shaking in absolute rage.

 _Shepherd_ , Eist suddenly thought. One who protects the sheep, yes—but also one who guides them.

A bit like a priest.

Eist tapped Mousesack’s arm lightly. “I need to see some of the older photos.”

“Ah…” Mousesack lightly pulled his phone out of his blazer pocket. “Gimme a second.”

He saved all the photos to a cloud drive, Eist knew, so that he could access them from anywhere. After a few seconds of tapping around on his phone, Mousesack handed it over to Eist, face lined with curiosity.

Eist gave a slight flutter of his hand. _I’m not sure yet, just hang on._

He found the folder for the day of the bann reading. A few minutes of carefully zooming in and scanning every detail of the photo, and he found Brother Cahir. Also leaning against the wall of the temple, but separated from the royal attendants. Watching the reading with a slight frown and an intense stare.

 _They think Pavetta needs to be rescued_ , Calanthe had explained, during one of their quiet conversations in the darkened bedroom of his rental flat. _From me and from Duny, apparently._

He navigated to the folder of the investiture. Sure enough, Brother Cahir was under an archway, not entirely clear due to the shadow, distance, and the lens’ focus, which was directed at Calanthe, standing at the front of the temple and holding her scepter, waiting for Pavetta to arrive.

Even slightly out of focus, his distinct features were still recognizable—and so was the burning hatred he was directing at the queen, who was completely oblivious.

It was circumstantial. But Eist’s gut was twisting with certainty.

He glanced up again.

Brother Cahir was gone.


	31. "I Told You, Didn't I?"

**The High Hall at the Temple of Modron, Cintra.**

Calanthe sighed and handed the cellphone back to Visindra. Thank the gods, it was done. She hadn’t really known what tone to take—whether to be charming or threatening, direct or suggestive—and she always hated being on odd footing in those types of situations where so much hung in the balance.

She’d started with charming. Thankfully, that had worked. Verden would fully cooperate. Their royal investigative forces would begin looking into the Shepherds site immediately, and would send whatever they found to Alcise and Renfri.

Visindra lightly patted the small of her back. _Good work, love._

Calanthe waved her on, back towards the high hall. “I just…need a minute.”

Visindra merely nodded in understanding. She disappeared down the corridor, offering one last smile to Danek, the only other person who’d accompanied them out of the hall.

Calanthe sighed and rubbed her forehead, delicately trying to avoid ruining her makeup. _One step closer_ , she reminded herself.

She heard footsteps and glanced up. Brother…Cavill, was it?...was approaching, looking a bit intense. She tamped down a wry smile. All those zealous young men always looked a bit intense, she decided. She had yet to meet a priest who seemed genuinely happy.

“Calanthe!” Another voice rang out, from the other end of the corridor.

Her heart leapt. _Eist_.

* * *

“Where is she?” Eist asked, feeling a swell of desperation as he met Visindra, coming back into the high hall. She motioned down the side corridor. He heard her calling after him in askance, but he was too busy barreling ahead.

He turned a corner and saw Calanthe, turned to the side, head dipped slightly. Danek was standing between them, already shifting slightly at Eist’s rapid approach.

Then Eist saw Brother Cahir at the other end of the corridor, moving quickly towards Calanthe.

Eist’s heart leapt.

“Calanthe!” He made a mistake in calling to her, he realized in the mere second after he did so. Because it pulled all of the focus onto to him—she whirled around, putting her back to Cahir completely, her face lined with a wildly competing mixture of joy and apprehension. And Danek was moving towards him too, completely ignoring the man actually moving to attack the queen.

Eist lunged forward, trying to push Danek back, to turn him in the right direction—it was like hitting a brick wall. Before he could call out again to warn her, Cahir was slamming into her, wrapping his left arm around her chest and raising his right as he growled something in her ear.

Eist saw the flash of a blade and his heart shrieked.

For a brief moment, Calanthe looked right at him, her expression pained and filled with sudden understanding.

Then she pressed her lips into a thin line and let all hell break loose.

* * *

Eist’s expression was what prompted her into action. The priest’s arm was crushing her chest, making it hard to breathe as he whispered, hot and harsh against her ear, “Death to all tyrants.”

_Not today_ , she decided. She tightened her grip on his upper arm and let her knees go limp, dragging him forward with the dead weight of her whole body and tucking her head to roll him over her shoulder.

He hit the floor with a heavy sound of surprise. She never loosened her grip on his forearm, rolling him onto his chest and wrenching his arm behind him as she slid forward quickly, using her knee to pin his shoulders to the ground. Danek scrambled forward, prying the knife from the man’s other hand.

Calanthe grabbed the man’s hair, pulled his head back, and smacked his face into the floor. There was a heavy, satisfying snap—a broken nose for certain, she thought with a flicker of pride. She probably would have continued, if Danek hadn’t reached out, slowly taking over to subdue the man.

By now, other agents were rushing in. Calanthe moved out of the way, falling back against the wall, legs curled up beneath her. She tilted her face up and laughed, breathless and bit unhinged from the sheer adrenaline shrieking through her veins.

She was terrifying, Eist thought. Beautiful and brilliant and terrifying. He tried to move towards her, but an agent pulled him back, moving him out of the way as the others hauled Cahir to his feet. The man’s nose was bleeding profusely, thought Eist wasn’t surprised. He knew the force of that woman’s arms, quite well.

“He’s safe!” Visindra’s voice rose above the din. Eist glanced over. She was still further down the corridor, at a safer distance. She’d obviously summoned a few extra security personnel, after noting Eist’s mad dash.

The agent turned to her in askance, and she gave another nod of confirmation.

Eist was released, and falling to his knees beside Calanthe in a flash. “Are you alright?”

She was grinning, absolutely feral with her sharp teeth and flashing eyes.

“I told you, didn’t I?” She rasped, still breathing heavily. “Danek doesn’t protect me from other people—he protects other people from me.”

She was so ridiculously proud of herself. So smug and shining and wonderfully alive.

Eist’s hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her head into his chest with a soft thud.

Her shoulders were shaking with laughter still. After a beat, he realized it wasn’t laughter at all. Her fingers were curled into his shirt, digging into his chest. The shaking was her breathing, trying to fully recover from the shock and adrenaline.

“You’re safe,” he announced, in a fierce whisper, ducking his head closer to hers.

“I know,” she murmured against his chest.

“I know you know, woman,” he huffed. “I’m still reminding myself.”

Now she laughed again. This time it was more natural, rippling with relief.

A soft sound—someone gently clearing their throat to gain attention—made them both turn and look up.

Visindra’s face was still lined with concern. “Cal—”

“I’m alright,” Calanthe assured her softly. She tightened her grip on Eist’s shirt.

Now Visindra focused on Eist, frowning softly in confusion. “But—how did you know?”

“I was going through photos, from the past two weeks,” Eist explained. “He was in the photos, the day of Pavetta’s investiture, and the day of the bann reading.”

He looked back at Calanthe, “And the way he looked at you, when you left the room tonight. I just had a feeling.”

“We’re quite lucky that you did,” Visindra decreed softly. Calanthe’s eyes shimmered in agreement. Then, quietly, Visindra informed her, “I think…I think we kept it contained. No one in the high hall knows what’s happened, yet.”

Calanthe breathed in relief. “Good. Let’s keep it that way. I won’t have Pavetta’s night ruined by this insanity.”

Visindra hummed in agreement.

"But...do increase the security in the high hall, as much as possible," Calanthe added. "Extra bodies assigned to Duny, specifically. And patrols throughout the rest of the building, to make sure we don't have any extra guests trying to join the party. Let Renfri know; she can handle questioning the priest. In fact, I'm rather certain she'll insist upon it anyways."

Visindra nodded curtly. Eist merely watched, slightly awed at how easily she recovered and went into command mode. She was a soldier, he knew, but now he was seeing it in action.

Danek was shifting around a few feet away, obviously still a bit anxious.

“I’m safe, Danek,” Calanthe drawled, looking a bit amused by his concern. Then she glanced back at Visindra. “I just…I think I tore the sleeve of my dress.”

“Oh,” Visindra leaned in further, and Calanthe turned slightly, so that Visindra could inspect the seam where the sleeve attached at the back of her dress. “You did. I’ll be back.”

Calanthe nodded. She watched her lady head back down the corridor for a beat before returning her attention to Eist.

He was here. Her brain was still trying to process it. He’d come after her, after everything.

_Here’s your one good reason,_ her brain prompted. _After everything, he’s still here_.

_Fuck it_ , she told herself. _Fuck your pride and do the hard work._

“I—may I have a moment to speak with you?” It sounded ridiculously formal, but she wasn’t sure how else to ask. Because it had to be a request, not a demand. She’d taken so many choices from him; she had to give him as many as she could, now.

“Of course,” he said softly, mild surprise blossoming across his face. He was so beautiful, so soft and alive and wonderfully _here_ , right in front of her. She wanted to kiss him, but held back. She needed to make things right, first.

He rose to his feet, offering his hand and gingerly helping her up. She didn’t let go of his hand, merely offering a small smile, silently asking permission still. He smiled softly back and she felt another measure of relief. She led him a bit further down the hall, glancing around until she found a small storage room of some sort. She looked back, slightly craning around him and raising her voice so that Danek could properly hear her, “We’ll be right here.”

Danek nodded in confirmation. Then Calanthe gently led Eist into the room and closed the door.

He simply turned and watched her, his heart beginning to beat so loudly that he almost couldn’t hear anything else.

She was looking at him, in absolute fear. She took a low, unsteady breath, then pushed herself to the center of the small room, wrapping her arms around herself as she turned away slightly, ducking her head.

Calanthe had spent so much time, trying to find the right words to say for her apology. But she’d been at a loss (words had never been her forte, anyway, much less ones for moments like this). Now the moment was here and she still wasn’t sure what to say—all that she knew was that she had to say _something_.

“Thank you,” she said simply. She motioned towards the corridor. “For…saving my life, yet again.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Eist pointed out, his throat tightening. She was so small and quiet now, nothing like the fierce and beautiful thing that had thrown a man around like a ragdoll, just minutes ago.

“But you did.” She blinked, looking up at him. “I—I saw your face, and I thought, I can’t let this man watch me die. I can’t…break his heart again, any more than I already have. I can't let it end like this, without...trying to make it right.”

Her tone was soft and aching, so heavy with regret.

Eist’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. Calanthe’s throat tightened, and suddenly, the words finally came, fast and shaking.

“I’m sorry.” She clutched her stomach. “I was—I _am_ —all those things you wrote. I know I am. And I’m sorry that I was all of those things, when we fought. I don’t—I don’t know how not to be—I don’t know if I ever can learn how, not truly, not fully, and I’m sorry that I don’t make it easy—”

She had to stop to suck in a sharp breath. She was trembling and her hand was covering her stomach again, shoulders rounded in slightly, as if she wanted to curl into herself and disappear entirely. But she kept her gaze locked on Eist—he realized this was more terrifying to her than fighting for her actual life against an assassin, and he felt a wash of soft wonder at her courage again.

She was so brave, so shining and brave. He pushed himself to be brave, too. He moved forward, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. Her shaking stopped and her impossibly wide eyes somehow grew wider.

“I should have—I should have listened.” Her voice was a rasp of a whisper, barely audible in the quiet room. She closed her eyes softly, her lips trembling as she continued confessing, “I should have been more…open, or less prideful or…I don’t know, I should have—you were just being honest, and I should have—”

“Calanthe.” He stopped her gently. He realized that she’d continue to excoriate herself all night, if he didn’t step in. Again, he thought of how alike she and Pavetta were, in that regard—willing to tear themselves to shreds, before anyone else could.

A knock on the door made them both jump slightly. With a regretful grimace, Calanthe slipped away, opening the door to reveal Visindra, who was holding up her purse.

“I’ve got the sewing kit,” she announced.

Calanthe glanced back at Eist, then back to Visindra. Then she shifted back slightly, letting her lady-in-waiting enter.

Visindra inspected the tear and gently proclaimed, “I’m gonna need you out of the dress, to properly fix it.”

Calanthe made a soft sound of understanding. Eist simply went out into the hallway again.

A few seconds later, Visindra reappeared, the dress in her hands. She quietly walked up to him and whispered, “She…still wants to speak to you.”

Then, with a knowing, meaningful look, she quietly informed him, “This is delicate material. It’ll take me a solid ten minutes to properly fix it. But we can’t be gone much longer than that.”

He nodded in understanding. “Thank you.”

She smiled softly. “I believe I should be the one thanking you, Mr. Tuirseach. You saved our girl’s life, by the looks of it.”

She took a few steps, and then turned back, reaching out to gently squeeze his forearm. “Be gentle with her. She’s…”

The duchess was at a loss for words. Then, with a small, almost sad smile, she offered, “She’s Cal. That’s about all I can say.”

Somehow, he understood. He merely nodded again and went back to the closed door, gently knocking.

She opened and peered around the edge of the door. He slipped out of his suit jacket and held it out to her. She dipped her head and took it, disappearing behind the door before opening it wider.

Calanthe wanted to cry in relief at the feeling of his warmth around her, the scent of his cologne so close and familiar. She was wearing a corset and slip for this particular dress; gods knew he’d seen her in far less—but the chivalrous kindness of his act was too sweet to refuse, a comfort she was far too weak to stand against.

She wrapped the jacket tighter around her, watching him with cautious eyes as he softly closed the door.

“I have a lot to say,” he informed her. She felt zero surprise at the statement. “I’m just…asking that you wait until I’m finished before you respond. Please.”

She nodded. She could simply listen—if she’d done that before, they’d never have been in this awful situation in the first place. He deserved to be heard; she could give him that, could give him anything he asked for.

Eist took a deep breath. Moved just a little closer, dipping his head so that their gazes were perfectly even.

“I was a coward, Calanthe. I should have simply written a true love letter—but I was still so stupidly afraid of how you’d react, of possibly being too much, too soon. So I tried to hide behind something a little less vulnerable. And I’m sorry. You deserved more than that—you deserve so much more than that.”

She surged forward a little bit, mouth already opening to refute him, but he held up a finger. “Just…wait. Please.”

She tamped her lips into a line, obviously not entirely pleased but obeying anyways. He felt a small flutter of adoring amusement for this woman and her predictability. It gave him just enough to continue pushing forward, “And yes, the things I wrote are true. But not entirely in the way that you see them.”

Her eyes still flashed with hurt—even though she’d readily admitted her faults, she still felt a sting, hearing him confirm them. She really was such a tender thing, he thought.

“Yes, you are clever and quick and cutting—and I don’t think I’ll ever not be in awe of your mind, your wit, your ability to instinctively hit a mark in any argument, even when you barely know your opponent. And yes, you absolutely are manipulative—you played me like a cheap fiddle within five minutes of knowing me, and I am a man who has made his living on being able to read and outmaneuver every person I meet. But I was ages behind the curve with you, and I…I can’t help but be impressed.”

Calanthe felt the breath slowly seeping from her lungs as her brain tried to keep up. He was still looking at her with such soft, shining-eyed adoration, even as he talked about her shortcomings. This…wasn’t right? ( _but then why did it feel so right, her mind wondered?_ )

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he admitted softly, still smiling. “And yes, you are stubborn to an absolute fault—but you hold to your own principles with equal firmness and that’s more than can be said of most. You are aware of your faults and failings, and you’ve learned to use them to your advantage. I’ve watched you charm rooms full of people who should be your enemy in every sense of the word, simply because you were able to acknowledge the very things which they should hold against you with such wit and wryness that it felt like you were simply sharing a joke with them. I have watched you use your skills to bend around the strictest conventions in the name of love—how could I not love you for it?”

She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. He gently reached out, placing his hands on her upper arms.

“I have seen more than that, too. The night in the flat—when you gave your reasons for not wanting to move forward—you really are one of the most noble people I’ve ever met, Calanthe. To a fault, almost.”

She blinked at that, and he added again, “ _Almost_.”

She gave a watery smile, and his heart fluttered. He continued, “You are loyal, and you care fiercely for those around you. Anyone can see that—and it’s why they’re so loyal to you, in turn. No one can deny the deep love you hold for Pavetta, nor the love and respect she has for you as well. And anyone who could earn that must be of noble character indeed.”

Calanthe exhaled softly, unable to disagree. Pavetta was a shining pearl of human being, and in some small way, she was responsible for that. She had put good into the world, through her daughter. And somehow, Pavetta's love for her mother was now part of Calanthe's virtues, because she had both created good and then done enough further good to make that creation still love her.

“And…when you allow yourself to be, you are one of the softest things I have ever seen,” he confessed thickly. She was obviously surprised at that, but he smiled again, reaffirming his statement. “And you hold such deep joy, such a genuine love for life and all it holds—you are the most fascinating contradiction I have ever encountered. You are bold and shy and fierce and tender and cruel and kind, absolutely infuriating and wildly hilarious and the sexiest, most beautiful and absolutely adorable thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t quite ever wrap my head around how it’s possible to be all of this, all at once. You blow me away, in the best of ways.”

Gods above, she hoped he was nearly finished. She wasn’t sure she could endure much more without melting into a puddle on the floor.

“I love you,” he said simply. “You are terrifying and wonderful and I love you.”

She waited a beat, then cleared her throat softly. “Are you…are you finished?”

“Yes,” he decided. It wasn’t the exact speech he’d prepared. He’d gotten a bit lost in those dark eyes and he’d rambled, but every word had been true.

“Oh, good.” She breathed in relief, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a searing kiss.

His head spun and his hands immediately went to her hips to steady himself, meeting the satin of her slip and the warm softness of her body beneath. She sighed softly into his mouth, sliding her entire body closer.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again, when they broke apart for air. “I just…I came to your room, because…I wanted you. I wanted you to hold me, for just a little while longer. And then I read the article—I shouldn’t have gone through your things, I should never have found it—”

“It’s alright,” he assured her gently, between little kisses. She nuzzled her nose against his, hands gratefully slipping through his hair.

“I thought—I thought maybe you didn’t actually see—or maybe that’s all there was to see." Her voice was still lined with tears and fear.

“No,” he reassured her again. “No, my darling, no—and I’m sorry I made you feel uncertain, even for a moment—”

“If I had listened—”

“If I had tried harder—”

“I should have trusted you—”

“I shouldn’t have reached for you like that—I’m so sorry I made you feel frightened—”

“Shh,” she pulled him further in, directing his forehead against hers. “That wasn’t your fault. That was…something else. Someone else.”

He ached at the confirmation of what he’d already suspected—someone before had not been as careful or as kind, when they were upset or angry. He held her tighter. Pressed a fierce kiss between her brows.

She gave a small, needy sound, shifting against him with a kind of aching slowness. She dipped her head, simply nuzzling into the curve of his neck. He felt and heard her long, deep, grateful inhale. His hands slipped further up and around, tracing up the line of her spine, hidden beneath the tightness of her corset. She was warm and solid and real, really in his arms again.

“I have to—there’s a surprise, for Pavetta.” She didn’t move, didn’t shift away in the slightest. But he could feel the sudden tension in her frame. “But after…would you…can we leave?”

She truly wasn’t sure that he’d agree, he realized.

“Absolutely,” he murmured, placing another kiss in her hair.

She slowly withdrew, making a slight face as she reached out to dust his shoulder. “I’ve—there’s make-up on your shirt now.”

He smiled softly. “It’s alright. Once you’re dressed, I’ll have my coat back, and it’ll cover it up just fine.”

Her smile became decidedly less soft, but definitely warmer. She stepped back, slipping his jacket off her shoulders with a burning theatrical slowness, extending her arm to hand it back to him.

Gods above, he could barely concentrate enough to actually grab the jacket. He’d felt the corset under her slip, but he hadn’t actually seen its full effects until now. She looked absolutely delicious.

With more of her skin on display, he also finally saw the mark, just above where her shoulder met her neck. Fainter, but still visible—his own mouth had left it there, during one of the most mind-blowing interactions of his life.

He moved forward again, lightly letting his fingertips ghost over the mark. She shivered, turning her head to allow better access. Her chest was already heaving again (the corset definitely enhanced the effect, he realized, and was rather glad of it). He let his fingers lightly trail across the line of her collarbone, across her shoulder, down the silk strap of her slip, over the curve of each breast pushing up through the cups of the corset, keeping his touch lazy and light, just enough to send out flights of goosebumps in its wake.

Calanthe’s eyes were closed, the flush steadily rising from her chest, up her neck and cheeks. Again, he’d never seen a softer thing, in all his life.

“How long is this whole surprise-reveal going to take?” He asked quietly, tone so heavy with want that it practically sank to the floor between their feet.

“Too long,” she admitted softly. He hummed warmly agreement.

“Visindra will be back soon,” he pointed out.

She nodded, slowly opening her eyes and looking up at him again.

“I am sorry,” she reiterated. “I know—you said you loved all those parts of me, but…I still regret that some of them hurt you.”

“I understand,” he said simply. She wasn’t seeking forgiveness, he sensed—she just needed him to know that she was aware of her actions, and that she was trying to learn from them.

She swallowed thickly and nodded. Then she reached up, using her thumb to gently wipe away the marks her lipstick had left behind.

He simply watched her, the way her lips softly parted in concentration, her face still flushed from the mere touch of his hand. He couldn’t help but lightly stroke down the line of her neck again, earning himself another delightful blush and shiver from the woman.

She grinned a little self-consciously, and he couldn’t help but grin in turn. _Oh darling, don’t ever feel badly for showing just how much I affect you. And please don’t ever stop being affected like this._

“There,” she decreed softly. “As beautiful as ever.”

“Beautiful?”

“What?” She grinned again, edging her tone with teasing, “You are a very beautiful boy.”

He felt another flutter of adoration at the softness of her confession, the absolute honesty in her words, even if she lined them with teasing. Still, “I do take slight offense to _boy_ , though.”

“Too old?” She feigned slight confusion, tilting her head to one side and blinking in coquettishly-false concern. There was a hint of challenge, just beneath.

“Still young enough to keep up,” he assured her—though she already knew, quite well, and her grin only confirmed it.

“We’ll see about that,” she said simply, though her tone was anything but. Heavy, lined with the kind of promise that made his heart race and his skin feel too tight. Her hand was still cupping his cheek, thumb lightly stroking across his bottom lip as she watched with a lazy, warm sense of hunger. Both completely restrained and absolutely feral—again, she slaughtered him with her juxtapositions.

There was a knock on the door.

“Impeccable timing,” she commented, and he wasn’t sure if she was referring to Visindra or his own earlier prediction about her arrival.

Once more, Eist slipped out of the room and Visindra came in, closing the door and helping Calanthe back into her dress.

Then she reached into her purse again—her one-and-all bag of tricks, always prepared for any small accident or inconvenience that may befall the queen—and pulled out a tube of lipstick and a hand-held mirror. She handed it to Cal. “You should do a quick touch-up before you go back out.”

That was her only comment on the matter. Calanthe smiled softly.

“I said fuck it,” she announced, a bit unnecessarily. She took another moment to view her own reflection, making sure her hair wasn’t too out of sorts.

Visindra gave a hum of approval, zipping the dress up the back. She lightly popped Calanthe’s arse, a silent _atta girl_.

“Given the sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks I’m seeing in both your faces, I’m assuming it went well.”

Calanthe ducked her head and tamped down a smile. Visindra merely wrapped her arms around Calanthe’s torso, lightly resting her cheek against the back of Cal’s head. “I’m proud of you.”

It was silly, how much those words meant to Calanthe. She suddenly felt like a young girl again, somewhat in awe of the cool and collected Duchess of Beauclair, desperately wanting to be like her, in some ways. They’d long moved past that, into something more equal, more worn and comfortable. But if her former self could see her now, she thought, she’d see something that truly gave her hope for the future.

Calanthe turned back around to her friend. “I’m…I’m leaving, after the surprise.”

“Alone?” Visindra asked, her raised eyebrows already noting her internal guess on the matter.

“No. And…if something happens…”

“I’ll be the one to come and find you,” Visindra assured her. Over the years, Calanthe had spent a few nights at the palace in a distinctly different bed than her own, and that always posed the unique issue of someone needing to know her location at all times, in case of an emergency. Visindra, her deepest secret keeper, was always tasked with knowing.

Visindra lightly turned her around again, inspecting the repaired seam. “Damn, I am a miracle worker.”

“Always,” Calanthe assured her. Visindra grinned again, nose scrunching in delight.

* * *

Pavetta actually screeched like a thirteen-year-old girl all over again when Visindra revealed her mother’s surprise in front of the entire room—at the announcement of his name, Jaskier walked out onto the stage, blindingly white smile and distinctive acoustic guitar in place.

Geralt was nowhere in sight, Calanthe had noted. Alcise was keeping tabs on him, either way.

Pavetta hugged her mother fiercely. “You really are the best.”

Calanthe’s heart stretched to the seams as she lightly patted her daughter’s arm, currently still wrapped around her neck. “I just want only the best, for my very best.”

Pavetta smiled warmly at the familiar phrase. Her mother had quoted it throughout the years. When she was much smaller, almost too small to actually remember, her mother had always cooed _my very best and very favorite girl_. Looking back, it was a bit humorous, as if Calanthe had a bevy of children to choose from, and Pavetta was still her favorite, the best and brightest—and yet, it never felt like anything other than absolute truth, any time her mother said it.

Calanthe gently cupped her face. “Just make sure the place is still standing by tomorrow. We’ve got some very important events happening here; we’ll need it.”

Pavetta grinned. Then, she noted, “You’re not staying.”

Calanthe smiled, “No, my love. I think I’ll leave the partying all night to the young ones. Besides, you can’t really let loose with your mother hanging around. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

It took Pavetta several minutes to realize that Mr. Tuirseach was also missing. She glanced over at Visindra, who merely smiled.

Pavetta’s heart soared. _Only the best, for my very best_.

* * *

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

The ride back to the palace was practically silent as Calanthe and Eist sat side by side in the back seat of the sedan. Mainly because Danek and the driver were still there.

Once they arrived, Danek got out to double-check security for the underground entrance. Calanthe leaned in, lips brushing against Eist’s ear as she quietly whispered, “Just…wait for me. I’ll come, as soon as I can.”

She pulled back, enough to meet his gaze, lifting her brows hopefully.

He’d wait a lifetime, he realized. He merely nodded. She smiled like the moon and lightly squeezed his thigh before Danek opened the door to let her out. Eist followed along, knowing that now, more so than ever, they were crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

For once, he didn’t fear the idea of what such a commitment might mean. He merely continued on ahead, following his heart—which was currently five steps ahead, steady clipping steps and swishing skirt and a quick smile over her shoulder as they parted ways atop the stairs.

_Soon_ , his heart promised. He merely smiled and silently echoed the promise right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...next update is rated E, natch. See ya Wednesday, love doves.


	32. Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, this shit is rated E. You know what's up.

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

_Soon_ , she had promised. But it couldn’t seem to come soon enough. Eist paced the length of his room again, willing himself not to look at the clock. He tossed his jacket across the desk chair, rolled up his sleeves, slipped out of his socks and shoes, simply enjoying the feeling of the ridiculously expensive rug beneath his bare feet (so maybe he _had_ missed a few perks of royal life, he decided).

Then, softly, the click of a door opening. He turned as she slipped into the room, quietly closing the door behind her again.

He wanted to cry at the sight of her. She’d removed her makeup, taken down her hair and rewoven it into a soft, loose braid over one shoulder. She’d put on a pair of silk pajamas, which were, of course, Cintran Cerulean. They looked almost too big for her, loose and rippling like water itself. She looked soft and sweet and everything he’d ever wanted.

She held up a finger to her lips as she moved closer.

“There are still plenty of staff, still up and about,” she explained in a low whisper, once she moved closer. “I’d prefer to not deal with rumors, later on.”

“Only rumors if they aren’t true,” Eist pointed out.

She grinned at that, moving around the room to dim the various lights. Eist watched in mild curiosity. She left plenty of light for them to see (she certainly had not proven to be a shy thing, in that regard, he thought warmly), but it was definitely softer, definitely darker, definitely more intimate. And certainly more dramatic—true to her form, as always. He couldn’t help but grin.

Finally, she came to him, pulling him in for a kiss. She was just as invitingly soft as she looked, Eist’s hands confirmed.

He tightened his hold on her waist, pulling back slowly. He took a beat to simply look at her.

“I just have one request,” he admitted quietly. “When you have to leave…just…let me be awake, when you go. Please.”

Her eyes welled with a mixture of emotions, none of which Eist couldn’t properly pin down. She gave a small, solemn nod.

“Alright,” she agreed softly. Then she stepped forward, guiding him back towards the bed. He wasn’t entirely sure how she managed it, because her eyes were locked onto his, wide and trusting and glittering with an almost-sorrowful tinge of adoration.

“I don’t know what happens after this,” she admitted in a low rasp. “I can’t—I can’t promise that nothing changes. Because I don’t know…where the line is, between before and after, anymore.”

“I’m not asking you to promise that,” Eist pointed out. “I don’t think I want you to promise that, truth be told.”

She smiled, face filling with a rush of relief. The feeling was mutual, he knew.

But then, he’d known that for quite a while, he realized. Yes, she’d pulled back and tried to hold to their bargain, but again, it wasn’t because she’d wanted to—it was because, as always, she had genuinely wanted to be a woman of her word, genuinely wanted to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt.

He felt a surge of affection and let it carry him forward, cupping her face with his hands and pulling her into a searing kiss. She made a low twittering sound against his tongue, rising up on her tip-toes to meet him, grasping onto his wrists for leverage.

When he pulled away, he gently reassured her, “As for whatever happens after this, we’ll figure it out, together.”

She nodded quickly at that. Her eyes were still so wide and fearful. _Oh my love_ , he thought, _do you still not truly know what I’m willing to give for you, to you?_

He slowly started unbuttoning his shirt. She watched, her eyes now wide for an entirely different reason. With a sense of breathless wonder, she reached up, lightly pressing her hand against his bare chest.

It was so much like the moment she’d held the article against him, asking him to destroy it—it stopped him for a full beat.

She realized it, too, looking up at him with a pained expression.

He simply leaned further into the moment, slipping his hand over hers, just as he’d done before.

But this time, she didn’t pull away. She took a half-step closer, dipping her head to place a soft, open-mouthed kiss across his knuckles. She tilted her forehead against his chest, simply waiting.

She was still seeking forgiveness, he realized. Still feeling the need to perform penance.

He let his free hand slip to the back of her neck, gently holding her in place as he bestowed a kiss atop her head.

_Please don’t leave me_ , he prayed. _Don’t drown in your own guilt and self-loathing. Please, see yourself as I do. Please love yourself, as I do._

Boldness, he reminded himself. Calanthe deserved—and truly needed—someone who could be bold enough to say all these things aloud.

He gently stroked the nape of her neck. “I need you to understand one more thing—perhaps the most important thing I’ll ever say. I love you, even when it hurts. When you left two nights ago, I loved you just as deeply as I did before, if not more. You were hurt and you were afraid and I loved you, through it all. You are fire and fury and I wouldn’t want you to be anything other than yourself, regardless of how it affects me. I don’t care what happens, I just want to know that you feel safe enough to be yourself, whether it’s sharp or soft or neither or both. I want you to take off the armor and just…breathe. Just breathe and just be. However you are.”

She let out a long, shaking breath. He knew there were tears in her eyes, even though they were currently hidden from him.

He kissed the top of her head again. “And I want you to trust me. Even more than you already do. Trust that I will still love you, through it all. That I won’t strike out in anger—physically or verbally. That I won’t offer judgment or rejection when you come back with apologies and humility. I will simply be here, simply loving you. I can’t do anything else, I’m afraid. I don’t _want_ to do anything else, even if I could.”

Calanthe wanted to devolve into absolute tears. She was fairly certain that he’d declared his love for her more times in a single evening than her actual husband had in the entirety of their sixteen-year marriage.

She wanted to say it back—she _felt_ it back, just as much, just as deeply. But her throat tightened and locked the words in.

_You have time_ , she told herself. _You have time, he will give you time._

She thought the words, over and over again, as she shifted, placing a kiss on his bare chest: _I love you, I love you, I love you, I do._

She let her hands slip down, relishing the feel of his body, moving around to pull him closer as she rose to up kiss him. _I love you, I love you, I love you…please understand, I love you._

He completely removed his shirt and she shifted back, breaking away from the kiss to finish undressing him, gently laying him onto the bed. She pushed her own pants off, leaving them pooled in the floor next to his, and climbed into bed, feeling a shiver at the way his hands on her hips held her steady as she straddled him.

She leaned forward to kiss him deeply, pinning him further against the mattress. The heat in her thighs pulled higher as his hands flexed deeper into her hips.

_Be yourself, whether it’s sharp or soft or neither or both,_ his words echoed in her ear. She guided him inside her, Eist’s soft sound of relief matching her own as she sat further back, settling into a more comfortable position. She began to move slowly, her fingers circling around his wrists and slowly guiding his hands up, under her still-buttoned pajama top, moving them further upwards until he was cupping her breasts. His fingers flexed deeper, relishing the softness, and she dipped her head at the pressure and sensation. She released her grip, leaning forward to place her own hands on his chest for balance as she tried not to disturb his hands too much.

Calanthe bowed her head slightly as she focused on the push and swivel of her hips, her braid swaying with each movement, its ends dancing across Eist’s chest. Almost numbly, he realized that, in all the times they’d had sex before, she’d never been this…intentional. He encouraged her, slowly massaging into her breasts, matching the slow, deep movements of her hips as she gave soft, long breaths with each push, brows furrowing as she concentrated.

Then she looked up, finally meeting his gaze again. He felt completely pinned in place as she simply stared into his soul—it was like their first night in the desert, the quiet discussion between them while those eyes simply bored into him, dark and overpowering in their depth. Her mouth was slightly open, the corner twitching slightly as if she kept trying to speak, but didn’t quite have the strength (not that he blamed her—every deep swivel of her hips was enough to make his lungs nearly stop completely, absolute fire and electricity).

He realized he couldn’t truly move his hands, because she was fully leaning in to his grasp, using it for support. Her right hand was still planted on his chest, fingers flexing in deep enough to almost bite. But her left hand came up, lightly tracing the side of his face, around the curve of his jaw, over his lips, up the line of his nose, fingertips lightly brushing over his eyelids.

She was slowly picking up the pace. He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or disappointed. Despite the frenetic energy he felt building in her body, she was still so…worshipful and soft.

“Tell me again,” she prompted, between quickening breaths. “How you—how you feel, tell me again.”

He tried to force his brain back into gear. “I love you—”

She gave a small, whimpering sound at that, but kept her gaze locked onto him as her hips kept moving, pushing faster. She stroked the side of his face again, expression filled with a hungry desperation.

“I love you, no matter what.” He knew that he was about to devolve into mindless gibberish, but he’d try as valiantly as he could. “Give me softness, give me strength, just give me you, your truest—”

“I love you,” she blurted out, reining in the volume of her declaration halfway through. The words felt like they nearly exploded out of her chest—hazily, she convinced herself that if Eist’s hands hadn’t been at her breasts, the words very well might have done just that. Release quickly rushed into joy.

She was looking down at him, beaming and so obviously proud of herself. Eist wanted to laugh under the wave of her joy. He merely grinned, feeling another surge of delight for the way it made her shine even brighter.

She was no longer the moon. In a room filled with shadows, she was the sun.

Then she slapped her hand over her own mouth as her body skittered, her lungs letting out a soft, high-pitched cry as her muscles tightened and twitched around his cock. She pushed harder, deeper, leaning fully into Eist’s hands with sudden heaviness. Then she went practically boneless, slumping forward before lifting her leg and rolling off him, pulling him along with her. He followed easily enough, moving atop her to slip inside her again, exhaling softly at the wet heat and the instant clench of her cunt around him again.

Her arms wrapped around his neck as her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him as close as possible as he began moving—he returned the favor, putting intention and weight into every slow push and swivel, building up to the rhythm they’d had just before she’d come.

She pressed her lips against his ear, breathing out the words, “I love you, I love you, please—I love you, please, just—I love you.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what she was pleading for, but he’d gladly keep giving her every ounce of himself. Her arms were still firmly around his neck, one hand slipping into his hair and holding on just enough to be felt as she panted and huffed in his ear, voice rasping with frenetic urgency, “Please, I love you, please…”

“Please what?” He finally asked, the curiosity far too great.

“Please just—show me. Give me you, too.”

This woman was absolutely going to murder him with her softness. He bowed his head further into the curve of her neck, losing himself in the constant push and pull as she hummed in approval of the faster pace, quickly devolving into more huffs and little half-voiced _pleases_.

When he came, she wrapped her legs tighter around him, keeping him firmly inside her, as deeply as possible. She held him there a beat longer, turning to whisper, in a quietly grateful tone, “I love you.”

Then she kissed his temple and let her legs slowly lower back to the mattress, releasing him. He rolled onto his side, looking down at her with soft wonder.

She loved him. Even though he’d known this, hearing it truly declared still had an almost dizzying effect. She’d said it over and over, like a prayer, like a promise, and she’d shone like the sun from all that love—she was still glowing now, beautiful and golden.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She gave a wolfish grin. “Trust me, it wasn’t all charity and self-sacrifice, on my part.”

He chuckled softly. “If it had been, I’d have to say you were one hell of an actress.”

His hand came up to lightly tug at the top button of her pajama top. She merely grinned deeper and helped him unbutton it, along with the rest. He sat up fully, slowly peeling each side back to reveal the rest of her torso and chest.

“I wasn’t talking about the sex,” he clarified, dipping down to kiss just above her belly button. “Though it was quite lovely.”

She hummed, the sound vibrating against his lips, which were now on her ribcage.

“I asked you to be open,” he reminded her. “To trust me even more and simply be. You gave me all of that, and more. So thank you.”

She smiled wryly at that. “I have found it’s nearly impossible to say no to you. And usually far more rewarding when I say yes, anyways.”

He let his tongue trace under the curve of her right breast before stopping to answer. “Well, I personally felt _quite_ rewarded, that’s for certain.”

“You did save my life—twice now, technically. That certainly earns you a queenly commendation.”

“Keep the plaques and medals. I’d much rather have this.” He punctuated his point by tracing around her nipple with his tongue before taking it between his teeth.

“A man of simple tastes,” she mused.

“Far from simple,” he corrected. He shifted a little, nuzzling against the smooth skin between her breasts before testing his teeth against the side of her left one. She shifted, lifting off the mattress a little, pushing further into his touch.

She laughed softly at that. “Is that a complaint or a compliment?”

“A mere statement of fact,” he informed her. “And I’ll take the complications, however they come. I’ll take _you_ , however you come.”

She hummed warmly at that, certainly not missing the obvious innuendo. “That’s been quite thoroughly proven, time and again.”

Now he raised his head fully, taking a beat to make eye contact as he seriously intoned, “But you will let me know, if you need further proof, won’t you?”

Her eyes were sparkling as she gave another sunny beam, “Absolutely.”

She let her hand come to his hair again, ruffling and stroking. Tone soaked in honey-warm adoration, she decreed, “I love you.”

He became truly serious. “I love you, too.”

She held his gaze for a full beat. Then arched her brow with burning slowness, shifting her legs wider.

“Prove it.”

* * *

Eventually Calanthe turned off all the lights, and simply opened the curtains to let in the moon. Eist grinned, thinking if his room had been on the other side of the hallway, the people in the streets would have gotten a lovely view of their queen—but as it was, there was no one about on the eastern side, with its darkened lawn and quiet orchards seeping further into the night.

She turned back to him with a soft, almost-hesitant smile. She moved back to the edge of the bed, simply watching him for a beat.

“What?” He prompted softly. He found that he liked the idea of them having to keep quiet—it meant they always spoke in gentle tones, and it felt good, felt right.

“Just you,” she said simply, smiling a bit more. Yes, she was an enigma, through and through, and he loved her for it.

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, hand lightly coming to her bare stomach again. Holding herself back, in some small way. He couldn’t allow it.

“Whatever you’re considering, the answer is yes,” he informed her, only half-jokingly.

She flushed a little, as if surprised at being so easily read. Then she considered him for a beat more, the gears in her mind obviously turning.

She headed for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a hand towel. His curiosity rose.

She placed it on the mattress and slid back into bed, lying on her side and delicately rearranging the towel in the space between their hips. She reached over, gently pulling him onto his side, facing her. She guided his right leg to drape over her left, shifting their bodies closer together.

By now, Eist had a pretty solid idea of what was happening, but he still felt a ripple of curiosity. Calanthe took a beat to simply make eye contact.

“I just…want to watch,” she admitted, voice already rasping with desire. She shifted a little closer, letting the tip of her nose brush against his, eyes wide enough to swallow the whole world. “I want to watch you come undone.”

He’d already told her the answer was yes, but he realized that it wouldn’t have mattered because gods above, he’d give her anything she asked, when she looked at him like that. More importantly, he realized what she was truly asking—she wanted utter vulnerability from him, a sign of his own trust and faith in her.

She was still waiting, still watching with hopeful eyes, and he merely shifted his nose against hers again, a half-nod and a full acquiescence.

Her left hand slipped down, fingertips lightly stroking against his cock and creating an immediate reaction of heat and heaviness within him. She kept her touches light as she kissed him, nipping at his bottom lip and bumping their noses together almost playfully.

Eist’s lungs were already tightening—he reached for her, pulling their bodies closer so that his knee could better hook around her hip, his hand sliding up the curve of her waist and flexing into the softness.

She pulled back from the kiss, tilting her head against the pillow to better view his face. Even in the darkness, his blue eyes were shining.

“You really are beautiful,” she told him, before she could even think about it.

He let out a soft breath, half from her words, soft and full of wonderment, and half from her thumb, slowly massaging the tip of his cock. He kept his eyes locked onto hers, and she could tell it was taking every ounce of effort for him to keep them open, under the waves of sensations rippling through his body.

She let her movements build into full strokes, feeling every shift of his body, the slow pull of his hips finding synch with her hand. His grip on her waist tightened and her skin sang in delighted response.

“Calanthe,” he said her name like a prayer, like a question and an answer.

She hummed in response _. I’m still here, my beautiful boy, I’m right here_. Then quietly, she prompted, “Tell me what you want.”

He closed his eyes softly at that, as if overwhelmed.

“You,” he answered quickly, a bit breathlessly. The earnestness and lack of hesitation made her heart swell. “Just…you.”

He was so beautiful and brilliant, practically glowing in the moonlight. How could she not give him everything he wanted, everything he deserved?

She titled her head closer to him again, their noses almost touching.

“You have me,” she whispered. Those searingly blue eyes opened again and her heart stopped a full beat. Pushing past the tightness in her throat, she repeated, “You have me.”

She wasn’t fully sure what he was asking, or what she was promising, but she was certain of that much—whatever it was, he had her, body and soul.

She realized that she’d never truly offered that much to anyone before. She should feel terrified, she thought. There should have been at least a moment of hesitation, some form of logical consideration. But no—she trusted him, and she felt safe in knowing that whatever she gave, it would be both protected and rewarded in kind.

His right hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb lightly brushing against her cheek, over and over again. Her lungs felt far too small, each tiny touch sending flutters across her skin. She tried to collect her scattered thoughts, to focus on all the things she wanted to say, but she kept getting lost in those ocean blue eyes, practically drowning her in love.

Somehow, she was becoming just as affected. Her own breath was rasping in her ears, just as shaking as his, and she knew at this point that she was outright staring at him in open-mouthed want, desperately starving for every little nuance and shift he gave in response to her touches.

She could feel the tension building in his body, and followed the signals of his breathing and his flushed skin, moving a little faster now.

He closed his eyes and let out a low, soft sound. Her entire body felt set aflame by that small noise.

“Eyes open,” she said tenderly, shifting back again to properly meet his gaze. He obeyed, and her heart melted.

Obviously, Calanthe Fiona Riannon was no stranger to being in control—in or out of the bedroom. But she’d never taken control with such…softness. Nor had she been given control with such an equal amount of tender trust. Eist was watching her with such quiet, adoring reverence, she wanted to cry.

More than anything, she wanted him to feel the way that he’d made her feel, during his confession in the small, cramped storage room at the high hall.

“I love you,” she began, voice barely a whisper. Now it was her turn to force herself to keep her eyes open, to keeping looking right at him, to watch the emotions rippling across that beautiful face as she continued. “I love you and I want all of you, too. The good, the bad, the every-little-thing in between. I am…terrified and I don’t know what to do, but I know that I love you.”

She could feel him tensing in her hand, so close to the edge. His hand was caressing the side of her neck now, tightening its grip with a sense of urgency that made her entire body ripple with heat and want.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” she promised, her own breath quickening as she watched his reactions grow. “Anything you want, anything you need—all of it, I’ll give you all of it—just let me love you. Let me love you and I’ll give you everything.”

She watched the desperation and adoration building in his expression, her throat going dry at the intensity of those blue eyes, still locked onto her. Gods above, he was absolutely beautiful. She couldn’t wait to watch him shatter under her love.

His hips jerked forward and she held his cock, slowing and softening her movements as she felt him come, warm and sudden against her thigh. He let out a low, needy sound as he pushed closer to her again and she met him, kissing him fiercely and swallowing the delicious sounds he made against her tongue as she slowly drew him through the rest of his orgasm. He was still holding her neck, fingertips digging into her skin so possessively that it made her head spin. She let her hand become gentle and feather-light again, still stroking for a few beats and chasing every last flicker of electricity through his veins.

_Everything_ , the promise and the fervor in which it was made swirled around Eist’s head as he held onto her, diving deeper into her kiss. She was moaning too, to the point that he couldn’t quite say where his own sounds ended and hers began. He pulled her closer, fully bringing their entire bodies together again—she twittered and whimpered in approval, wrapping her now-free left arm around his waist and holding on just as tightly.

He wasn’t sure exactly what _everything_ meant—wasn’t sure that she did, either. But he believed it, with every ounce of his soul.

He realized that, when he’d planned on fighting for her, when he’d prepared his little speech and set out to win back whatever thing had been growing between them, he hadn’t actually considered what might come next, what it might actually mean for their lives, both separately and together.

It didn’t matter, he realized. She had offered him everything, and he’d be a fool not to take it with both hands and hold on tight.

* * *

Apparently, when Calanthe had promised giving him everything, Eist had heard: every ounce of her, every which way, with very little pause in-between. Not that she entirely disagreed with the interpretation—she dipped her head and grinned at the thought, pushing through another wave of heat as Eist tightened his grip on her hips. She just wasn’t even truly sure how they’d ended up here—on the floor, her on hands and knees and him behind, driving her to absolute insanity.

She did know, actually. She’d gone to clean up a bit, and he’d been so desperate that he couldn’t wait for her to make it all the way back to bed.

The realization of being wanted so deeply, so overwhelmingly, sent another quivering jolt through her thighs.

“Eist,” she whispered harshly, already feeling the swelling in her lungs. “Eist, I’m gonna scream.”

“Then scream,” he suggested breathlessly, never stopping the almost-punishing pace. She dipped her head and laughed at his absolute unhelpfulness.

But it was true. She could feel it building—she was absolutely going to lose her mind. She lowered her chest closer to the floor, hoping the carpet would help muffle the sounds. Eist followed her, planting his hands on the floor to accommodate the new angle.

This did not help the whole keeping-her-from-screaming-her-lungs-out thing, she thought, the shift in their positions now making her almost helpless with feral energy. Eist slowed down, but he pushed harder, deeper into her, as if he were driving her into the floor itself. Her toes began to curl.

“Fuck,” she hissed, arching further into the sensation.

“Working on it,” he informed her, completely deadpan.

She lost it then. Devolving into breathless laughter, then inhaling sharply in surprise as her climax ripped through her body, stuttering stars behind her eyes. She felt like she would vibrate halfway across the room, but one of his hands came up, anchoring her hips in place as he continued. She turned her face into the carpet and wrapped her arms around her head, unable to hold back all of the sounds pushing out of her lungs, even as she tried to lessen their volume. There was a reckless joy shooting through her veins, a kind of wild and half-terrified delight that she hadn’t felt since she was a child, racing along on a runaway horse for the very first time.

_I want all of you._ She had been absolutely honest, when she’d told Eist that. But she’d had no idea just how much of himself he hadn’t given her yet.

She thought back to the night in the rental flat. The quiet words he’d whispered, just before they’d drifted to sleep: _Too much for some is not nearly enough for others. And for some, it’s exactly, perfectly enough._

At the time, she’d thought it was beautifully sweet. His way of saying he could handle her (and boy, could he).

Now she realized that there had been more. It had been perfectly enough for him, because he was also a thing of _too much_. Right now being a perfect case in point: he was absolutely too much for her, and it was sublime.

She was still shuddering and panting, her body more than ready to simply melt into the floorboards, but Eist definitely wasn’t finished. She willed her knees to stay in place, pushing back into him and almost praying that he’d come soon, before she exploded into nothingness entirely.

His hands were back on the floor again, hips driving into her and pushing more heat through her own.

She turned her head to the side, too far gone to try being quieter. She let him hear every sound, every pant and whimper his thrusts pulled from her lungs as her chest pressed further into the carpet, hands coming out to blindly find his wrists. Her still-strained muscles were absolutely screaming, but the agony was exquisite.

Calanthe was absolutely strung out, Eist realized hazily. He couldn’t help but feel a flush of pride at being able to send this woman so far over the edge.

_Everything_ , she’d promised. _Just let me love you._

He’d tried to explain, in the brief lull between that moment and this one—for him, _everything_ was just her, letting him love her in return.

And now, he knew that she’d understood, in some way—she understood and she tried to give him just that, just as she’d promised. He’d dragged her onto the floor and buried his head between her legs and she hadn’t hesitated. She’d opened herself up even more and gave him everything he wanted. Even now, even as he could feel and see the way she’d become almost helpless from her body’s reactions, she still tried to pull herself together enough to keep giving him more.

Because she loved him. _She loved him_ , beyond anything he could have imagined. He felt her fingertips, lightly trilling over his hands, shaking and still so filled with adoration. He watched her face, the almost-pornographic expressions flickering across it as she moaned and huffed, pressing her hips further into him, encouraging him as the corner of her mouth hooked into a warm smile.

Again, all juxtapositions. Raw feral fucking and still the softest touches, the sweetest little smiles. He ground harder into her, falling apart with a low moan of his own as her hips shifted and pushed, drawing as much out of him as she could.

They stayed like that for a beat, both trying to catch their breath.

“My knees are gonna hate me tomorrow,” she decreed, not sounding regretful in the least (granted, she was too breathless to add _any_ emotion to her tone, he noted a bit pridefully).

“Mine too,” he admitted. Gingerly, he shifted back, sliding out of her and wrapping an arm around her midsection to keep her from simply collapsing to the floor. He had no choice but to lay back on the rug, far too exhausted to attempt moving any further. She let him pull her along, too, rolling over to curl into him, placing a soft kiss on his chest before resting her head in the same spot.

He shifted, wrapping an arm around her.

“We should sleep at some point,” he noted.

She hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the statement.

“Have I mentioned that I love you?”

“Not in the last five minutes, no.” Her tone was wry, almost teasing.

“Oh. Well. I do.”

She hummed again, this time in a warmer, happier way. Almost like a cat purring.

Calanthe closed her eyes and listened to Eist’s heart, the rapid beat slowing into a steadier pace.

But as her mind turned, her own heart began to race.

She’d promised everything. And soon, she’d have to deliver just that. She just hoped that it wasn’t too much.

* * *

Eist slowly slipped back into the waking world—and felt a flutter of dismay to realize that Calanthe was not still in his arms.

“I’m still here.” Her voice softly called him fully awake. Her fingers brushed through his hair, comforting and gentle.

He opened his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the greyness around them. It was still at least an hour before dawn, he guessed. She was sitting up against the headboard, legs curled into her chest, fully dressed in her pajamas again.

“You have to go?” He guessed, voice still thick with sleep.

“Almost,” she returned softly. “I have a little while longer.”

She watched him with an oddly heartbroken expression. “I just…wanted to let you sleep, a little bit more, before I said goodbye.”

“Well, I’m awake now,” he assured her. Then he looked up with a grin. “So, if you wanna make the most of your extra time…”

She ducked her head and grinned, but he already knew she wouldn’t. She looked away for a second, pressing her lips together as if lost in thought.

“Hey,” he reached out, letting the back of his hand lightly stroke over the top of her foot. “I know it’s terrifying. But we’ll figure it out.”

Her throat tightened and her eyes burned at the certainty in his tone.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, with a shaky breath, she added, “But…before we do—before you can truly make this decision…you need to know all the facts.”

He shifted, instantly curious. He moved to sit up, but she lightly reached out, her hand on his chest, keeping him in place. Her dark eyes locked onto him with utter seriousness.

“Eist,” she said his name like a caress, the corners of her eyes lined with compassionate concern. “Eist, I’m going to tell you everything, because that’s what I promised, and it’s what you asked for. But…I need you to promise me something in return. You won’t say anything at all. I’m going to tell you everything, and then I’m going to leave. You’ll need time to think about what this means, and whether…whether you can…continue, with me. But I genuinely want you to think about it. You can give me your answer later, but for now—please, promise you won’t say a word.”

He felt his heart pounding with dread. Still, he merely nodded, slipping his hand over hers, still on his chest.

“I promise,” he said simply.

She smiled, a bit sadly, and leaned in, sealing it with a soft, warm kiss. It seemed ridiculous, asking for such a thing, but she'd realized it was the only way to summon the courage to actually tell him everything—if she knew for sure that he could offer no judgment on it, at least not when she would be her most emotionally vulnerable.

With a soft sigh to push back the burning bile currently creeping up her throat, she sat back and began.

She told him about being pushed into her marriage with Roegner, all the details of his treachery. The whole incident with Geralt, even the affair.

At that point, she couldn’t quite look him in the eye anymore. She kept her gaze trained on her own hand, still sheltered beneath his, still covering his heart. He hadn’t pulled away yet—if anything, his grip on her had tightened, almost protectively.

She told him about wanting another child. About all the tests and all the times she closed her eyes and opened her legs and dealt with her husband again, and all for nothing.

She swallowed hard. Her breathing was becoming faster, more shallow, like a sick cat’s. She willed herself to push forward, “Eventually, after all my tests came back with good results, Roegner also underwent testing. And…and it turned out, he’d never been able to…father children.”

She felt Eist’s whole body still beneath her hand.

She closed her eyes, taking a long, deep breath and summoning the strength to finally look up at his face and gauge his reaction.

He looked absolutely heartbroken—but _for_ her, not at her actions.

For the first time all morning, the iron acidic grip on her stomach eased, just slightly.

Eist’s brain was still swirling as he processed what she’d said—and also what she hadn’t said. She didn’t say outright that Pavetta was an illegitimate heir, the bastard child of some former personal guard.

She didn’t have to—the absolute terror at her confession was evident in every line of her face, in the deep dark wells of her eyes. She’d handed him the bombshell of the century, and they both knew it.

He’d promised not to speak, but he needed to ease the worry in that beautiful, terrified face. He began to lightly stroke her hand, still on his chest, keeping his touch warm and weighted and soothing. Her shoulders shifted slightly, as if she’d been holding her breath.

She looked away, sniffing slightly as she continued in an unaffected air, “Roegner was…not pleased, to say the least. He had no qualms about showing it, either.”

He thought of the way she skittered away, when they’d fought. Another unspoken answer. His lungs tightened with indignation.

She looked back over, reading his expression plainly enough. She smiled softly.

“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “He only got in one hit—and he never touched me again after that, even in the slightest.”

_Good girl,_ he thought. He hoped she’d broken his fucking wrist. He’d seen what she’d done to Cahir—he hoped just as much for her dead husband, may he rest in hell.

She continued her story. About telling Geralt, about him abandoning them post-haste. About Pavetta never knowing. About all the lengths she’d gone to, to keep this secret, for her daughter’s sake.

Eist believed her. Her devotion to her daughter was unrivaled, he’d known that for almost as long as he’d known her. He had no doubt the woman did almost everything for Pavetta’s benefit.

She kept glancing over at him, as if trying to make sure he wasn’t angry or upset. It only made his heart ache more for her—because, yes, he _was_ fucking seething, but not at her. He wanted to absolutely rage and bellow at all the ones who’d come before, all the ones who’d had a chance to earn this woman’s love and trust and who’d betrayed it so cruelly.

Finally, she finished with a light sigh. She shifted, looking down at him again. “And that’s…everything. Not everything, I suppose. But everything you need to know, before you make a decision.”

His hand tightened around hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles comfortingly.

“Actually.” She realized with a pang. “There’s one thing more. Geralt is here. Now. In Cintra. He’s head of security for Jaskier.”

She saw the surprise ripple across his face.

“That’s why—that’s part of the reason why I was so shaken, the night we fought,” she confessed. “I had just learned that he would be here, again. And I—I thought it was a warning, of sorts. A sign…about you. About us.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, as if it were becoming physically difficult to hold back all the reassurances he want to pour into her. But he held to his promise of not saying a word. She smiled and loved him for it, all the more.

“I don’t regret any of it,” she informed him, and she believed her words, down to her bones. “All the awfulness gave me Pavetta, and if that’s what I had to endure to have her here, then I’d do it all over again, exactly the same.”

Her voice was thick with tears now. Eist felt his own eyes sting. _You beautiful, brave thing_ , he thought to himself.

She glanced away. “I’m sorry. You couldn’t possibly know what you were asking, when you asked for all of me. I know it’s—”

_Too much_ , she almost said. But she stopped herself. No. That was Eist’s decision, not hers. Instead, she said, “A lot. It’s a lot. To…handle, and process. And I…I don’t want you to make a decision right now, just because I’m here and emotions are running high. Please, truly think on it. I don’t know how we move forward—or if you want to, knowing all this now—but I want you to consider what it truly means, if we do.”

She couldn’t help herself. She leaned in again, lightly kissing the top of his hand, still covering her own.

“I just…want you to be happy,” she confessed softly, keeping her head bent and her eyes closed, lips still almost-ghosting over his skin.

_I want to give you the world,_ she wanted to say. _I want to be noble and kind and all the things you said I was, last night. But this is all I have, and I give it all_. _You deserve so much more than this, someone better than this—but this is all I have, all I am. Please let it be enough._

Quietly, she added, “But don’t feel…beholden. Even if only for a little while, you let me love you, and that is enough. You don’t owe me anything else.”

It felt like a goodbye, and she hated it. But maybe it was—maybe once she was gone and the reaction to her tears subsided, Eist would realize that this was far more entangled than he ever wanted to become. Maybe he’d see her fling with Geralt as a potential hint of future infidelity, or simply see all the deception surrounding the whole ordeal as an indictment of her character—maybe he’d realize that all of his feelings, while true, were not worth taking on the everything she had offered.

She would accept whatever decision he made. So long as it was what he truly wanted. She could no longer trust herself to make the best decision for them—it had to be him, she realized, and more importantly, she trusted him to make such a choice, for both their sakes.

She allowed herself one more tiny kiss atop his hand. Then forced herself to move. _You’ve stayed long enough, let him have peace to make up his mind._

Eist was actually, literally biting his tongue to keep from responding. He never should have promised such a thing, he thought. To listen to her story, to watch her soft, sweet face crumple under the weight of all her conflicting emotions and her fear at his reaction, and to be unable to say a single word of comfort—it was the worst form of torture he could imagine.

She truly trusted him, he realized. She’d pulled back the final layer on her mystery, at a great risk to herself, her daughter, her entire nation’s stability. All because she wanted him to see everything, to know everything—she’d promised, and she’d delivered.

He wanted to give her everything in return, a reward for her bravery, a reassurance that her trust was well-founded.

She still wasn’t sure that he could possibly accept every part of her. That realization ached the most. She’d approached him with her bleeding heart in her hands, still trembling at the fear that even now, even after everything, it still might not be enough, still might not be something that he wanted more than anything else. As if she genuinely thought that once he truly considered what she’d given him, he’d find something not worth loving, something not worth keeping, something not worth continuing.

He couldn’t let her leave this room with a hint of doubt. He thought back to the night of the fight—all his regrets at letting her leave, at letting her doubt, letting her hurt, even in the smallest of ways.

_Never again_ , he promised himself.

She gave a watery smile and slid off the mattress, quickly padding around bed, towards the door.

Eist was on his feet, coming behind her to gently stop her, his hands on her upper arms. He felt her steel herself, her head ducking as she took a quiet breath.

He’d promised not to speak. He’d hold to that. But some things could be said without words.

He gently turned her around, squeezing her shoulders one last time. _Stay, here._

She blinked, face lined with curiosity and fear.

He moved back to the desk. Opened the drawer and pulled out the sapphire necklace—even with the distance between them, he could feel the way she almost recoiled at the sight.

He understood so much, now. The reason she’d fought at every turn to keep her heart to herself, the reason she’d been so devoted to building Pavetta up in the eyes of her people, the reason she’d tried to sabotage herself from ever having to let anyone in again, the reason she’d been so fearful and cruel, when she’d left this on his desk.

She’d given him this gift, in an act of punishment and self-loathing. He’d give it back, in forgiveness and absolution.

_Everything you said, all the hurt you felt, it makes sense now_ , he thought, slowly moving back to her, hoping that she could somehow read his thoughts. More than anything, he felt an overwhelming sense of awe— _you precious, brilliant thing, how are you still here? How did you survive, all this time, completely on your own? When every person who should have protected you turned into a weapon aimed at your heart, how did you ever overcome?_

There were tears in Eist’s eyes, but he was still so shining and soft and loving. Calanthe couldn’t quite understand it. He moved around her slowly, gently brushing her braid over her shoulder, exposing the nape of her neck so that he could properly clasp the necklace in place. He leaned forward, lightly bestowing a kiss just above it. She shivered and fought back another wave of tears, her head dipping forward in a sudden rush of grateful exhaustion. The anxiety had wrecked what little rest she’d gotten in the night, and now she felt the weight of it all, turning her bones into lead.

His left arm was firmly around her waist, solid and supportive, his right hand slipping up into her hair, cradling the right side of her head as he shifted, slowly placing kisses up the left side of her neck. She turned into him a little more, desperate for the reassuring softness, for the absolution every touch gave.

Her knees were going weak. Her left hand went up, fingers sliding through his hair, holding on for dear life.

Eist felt the growing heaviness in her body, the absolute bone-melting relief settling into her muscles, and he slowly brought them back to the floor. He pulled her closer into his chest, holding her, practically rocking her.

His lips tasted salt, when they reached her cheek. She was crying, he realized numbly.

Somehow, it seemed like good tears. The healing kind. So he cradled her and let her cry silently, pulling her into a tight, reassuring embrace.

Calanthe let her head roll forward again, feeling completely overwhelmed by the softness of the man whose arms still felt like the strongest fortress she’d ever known. She felt the warmth of his lips on the back of her neck again, solid and reassuring.

She already knew his answer. There was joy, and terror, at the realization.

But more than anything, there was relief. She had given everything, and it had been enough. Not too much, not too little. Simply enough.

She'd confessed to her darkest secret, and he'd looked upon her with absolute compassion. He had accepted it all, without a breath of hesitation. And now, when she felt battered and bruised by reliving it all, he simply held her and let her fall apart. Even under the weight of his own shock, his first instinct, his only reaction, had been to shelter and reassure her. At every turn, she'd been met with love. Deep, unhesitant, unrepentant, unblinking love.

Something broke inside. The kind of break that set things right.

She let herself cry some more. Let herself be held. Let herself be loved, unconditionally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...not actually sure I'll have an update for Friday, but also updates are generally happening a few hours earlier than usual since I'm currently on the east coast (ayyyyy timezones, helping us all out!)


	33. The End's Beginning

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

Alcise and Renfri requested a briefing, before Calanthe began her wedding preparations. She didn’t take it as a particularly favorable sign.

“Cahir wasn’t the most forthcoming,” Renfri admitted. “But a search of his quarters at the rectory gave us a pretty clear view of what’s happened. He seems to be a bit…fixated, on the princess. A group like the Shepherds was a perfect place for him, feeding into this idea that she needed to be saved.”

“From me,” Calanthe clarified, a bit dourly. “And Duny, apparently.”

Alcise hummed in confirmation. “We’ve also answered another piece of the puzzle—Brother Cahir was at the Children’s Hospital, the morning of the attack, visiting some congregants in treatment. It seems that he alerted Tirbez to the fact that it was you, not Duny, who was accompanying Pavetta. He must have either seen you, during the tour somehow, or perhaps overheard a staff member discussing it.”

Calanthe nodded. It still didn’t answer the question of who knew about the visit in the first place. “And we’ve…talked to all our staff, plus the hospital?”

Alcise nodded. “We’re currently going through visitor records for the past two weeks, to see who else we might have missed.”

Calanthe considered the question (a bit of a feat, as her brain was still exhausted from last night’s lack of sleep and this morning’s equally-taxing confession). Two weeks…they hadn’t had many visitors in the past—

“Coral and Fringilla.” She suddenly realized. “They won’t be on the records. They’re Pavetta’s friends; they don’t come through security checkpoints.”

Alcise sat back slightly, eyes suddenly wide. She’d seen Fringilla chatting with Brother Cahir last night, before the queen’s arrival.

She said as much, and Calanthe’s face became a little more drawn.

“I think it’s time you spoke to Fringilla,” she announced quietly.

Alcise and Renfri were already on their feet and halfway out the door. Calanthe ducked her head, letting out a soft sigh. She hoped they were all wrong. She thought back to the advice she’d given her daughter, just a few days ago: _You have to have a clear outline of whom to trust. And that circle has to stay small._

Pavetta was about to learn this lesson, most painfully. Calanthe’s mother heart ached at the thought.

* * *

Eist had promised to wait, to truly consider his options before making his choice. But he’d waited as long as he could.

Even without using words, he was rather certain that Calanthe had understood his answer, when she left his room earlier in the morning. He’d held her until she was stronger again, and he’d felt a measure of pride in knowing that she’d drawn some of that strength from him. In the end, she’d had one hand in his hair, holding him into the curve of her neck as she turned further in to him, pressing her temple against his forehead, her other hand trailing up and down his arm which was still wrapped around her, silently thanking him, over and over again. Then she’d kissed him with a quiet gratefulness before slipping out the door. She’d seemed calmer, more certain.

Eist had known then and there (and truly, yes, even before that moment) that he wanted to be the one who always held her, when she needed to fall apart. But it wasn’t just a question of _if_ he wanted that—but rather _how_.

He stood by what he’d said, last night—they’d figure it out, together.

Which meant they needed to _be_ together. And yes, today would be a whirlwind of a day, but he needed just a quick, quiet moment alone with her. He needed to say all the things that he hadn’t been able to, due to his promise not to speak during her confession. He needed her to know beyond even the slightest shred of doubt exactly where he stood.

He found himself lightly smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt, running his fingers through his hair one last time as he moved down the hallway towards the queen’s private chambers ( _beautiful_ , she’d call him beautiful, and he desperately wanted to always look that way, in her eyes).

He gave a curt nod of greeting to Danek, posted outside, and a firm knock against the closed door.

Visindra’s slightly-surprised face appeared. “Mr. Tuirseach. A very pleasant morning to you.”

She knew. He could tell by the light in her eyes. Then again, she’d been with them, last night, amidst the chaos and confessions.

She knew everything. _A condition of her complexity_ , she'd once called Calanthe's outer persona. Eist didn't understand it at the time, but now he knew fully. 

“And to you,” he returned with a slight nod. “I know—I know it’s a helluva morning, but I need to speak to her. Just for a moment.”

She took a beat to size him up, obviously reading the absolute urgency lining every inch of his frame. Then, she nodded, opening the door wider and leading him into the queen’s private receiving room.

Eist looked around, realizing the room didn’t fully capture Calanthe at all. It was all pomp and circumstance, but in muted tones. Delicate furniture with clawed feet and carved golden detailing around the edges, regal and overwrought. Orchids waited in the windowsill, and along one wall, there was a long side table filled with framed photographs—mainly Pavetta, in various stages of childhood. A picture of Calanthe, holding a four- or five-year-old Pavetta as they grinned widely at the camera, hair whipping around wildly in the wind, made Eist grin in turn.

_I’d do it all over again, exactly the same_ , she’d said. He knew she’d meant it, every word, every ounce. Despite it all, she had been happy, at times.

He felt a measure of relief at the thought—and made a promise to himself to make her happier still, in every way that he could.

A slight commotion at the other side of the room drew his attention—Calanthe, slipping out of the double doors that led to her bedroom, face lined with a mixture of concern and soft delight.

Her makeup was fully done, dramatic and dark as always, highlighting those beautiful eyes that Eist would gladly spend his life lost in. Her hair was currently up in curlers and her body was wrapped in a silk robe, which she instinctively held a little tighter out of nervousness.

She was still wearing the sapphire necklace, he noted with a flush of warmth. Still wearing forgiveness.

She didn’t ask why he was here—she already knew, he could tell.

“I don’t have much time,” she warned gently, moving closer. Eist couldn’t help but smile—she looked adorable, half-done like this, and again, he realized he’d do just about anything to get to see this side of her, unpolished and unguarded.

He also couldn’t help but draw her closer, hand slipping to the back of her neck to bring her in for a deep, albeit chaste, kiss (for all her softness and adoration, she would absolutely murder him for ruining her lipstick right now, he knew). She melted a bit further into him, giving a small, happy hum.

“I waited as long as I could,” he confessed. “And I have truly considered what you’ve told me, and I just have to say: Ok.”

“Ok?” Her brows lifted and quirked in mild confusion.

“Ok,” he repeated. “You told me this part of your story, and I accept it. It’s part of who you are, and a daily part of your life, I understand. I realize it creates added complexities, but I don’t think you actually consider it a mistake yourself, so neither will I.”

She let out a low, soft breath.

“It’s gonna take a helluva lot more than that to run me off,” he informed her.

She grinned briefly, then resumed a more serious air. “There are only a few who know—Pavetta, of course, can never—”

“Of course,” he understood. Quietly, he added the thought that had been on his mind all morning, “But, in the end…she’s still your daughter, Calanthe. Every inch a princess and more than suited to the role of future queen. The circumstances of her birth don’t change the fact that she is the daughter of the queen, and still legitimately part of the House of Raven.”

She blinked quickly at that, but he could sense that she’d often told herself the same thing, over the years—there was a sense of relief, as if hearing her own thoughts reconfirmed.

“I do have to ask, out of sheer curiosity.” He watched her carefully, already fairly certain of the answer. “When Mousesack and I did research before our first interview, I found rumor sites with claims—”

“Yes, probably,” she interjected, before he could fully ask. “We…ran a whisper campaign, ages ago. It was…part of my penance towards Roegner, in a way. I made it look like the issue was me, not him.”

He felt a mixture of competing emotions—a measure of satisfaction, knowing he truly did know her well enough to piece together outside bits of the narrative, and irritation that she’d felt the need to spread lies about the maternity of her own daughter, just appease her petty former husband.

“You didn’t owe him a damn thing,” he informed her. She blinked, a bit surprised at his vehemence. He lightly placed his hands on her upper arms. “More than anything, when you told me the story this morning, I marveled at how you were able to survive without shattering completely. I’m sorry you had to handle all of that, on your own. And if I am ever half as careless with your heart—hell, even a _fraction_ as unkind—you have my permission to smother me in my sleep.”

She grinned, cheeks flushing softly. She glanced down, her hand lightly coming up to her collarbone, fingertips brushing over the necklace.

“Then, you are…planning to be sleeping near me, in the future?” She asked quietly, dark eyes flicking back up to meet his gaze.

“Please don’t pretend that was ever a question after last night,” he informed her seriously. Then, with an arch of his brow, he teased, “Unless you’re questioning whether or not there will be actual sleep taking place.”

She laughed softly at that, but didn’t bother trying to deny it. Last night had been rejuvenating, but not particularly restful.

Her hand left the necklace, coming over to slide up his chest, fingertips trilling over the buttons of his shirt. She couldn’t quite meet his gaze as she prompted, “And…what does that look like, for us, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve really just been living moment to moment here.”

She grinned, ducking her head with a light shake. “Of course you have. You terrify me, Eist Tuirseach.”

He knew that for her, a woman who planned fifteen steps ahead for everything, the idea of not over-analyzing and predicting every possible outcome from every possible angle was absolutely foreign. Which made her confession earlier this morning all the braver—because she _had_ considered the worst-case scenario, the most devastating effects, and had still decided it was worth the risk (that _he_ was worth the risk), still chose to trust that he wouldn’t betray or hurt her.

_You terrify me._ She said it with such sweet adoring softness, the way most people said three other little words.

Quietly, he decreed, “Good. You terrify me, too. Let’s keep terrifying each other for a very long time.”

She huffed at that, still wryly amused.

Still, he wanted to reassure her. “I meant what I said, last night. Once the craziness of the wedding is over, we’ll sit down and figure this out. Together.”

She nodded quickly at that, her gaze sliding back down to her own hand, still on his chest. Her fingernail lightly tugged against a button. “I also meant what I said, this morning. I just…I want you to be happy. But I also need you to know, whatever we decide—I cannot do a casual thing, not with you.”

“Good.” He grinned. She looked up again and he slipped his arms around her fully as he confessed, “I don’t think I have ever truly felt casually about you, in the least. I don’t plan to start now.”

Her smile blossomed like spring.

“Good,” she breathed, tone becoming noticeably warmer and raspier. “We’ll talk, after. You’ve distracted me enough for one morning, I think.”

He let his hands move further down, squeezing her hips, “I think that’s up for debate—”

“Not right this moment, it isn’t,” she warned. Still, its effect was rather lost, due to the way she delivered it, the way she leaned further into him, rising up on her toes to prompt him into another kiss. She hummed warmly against his mouth, then pulled away sharply, slipping out of his grasp, smoothing her hands down the front of her robe and assuming a more queenly air. “Away. Hille will never forgive me if I let you ruin my hair.”

“I wasn’t going to focus on your hair.” He was able to still get in a light pop on her ass, which made her twitter in mild surprise.

She attempted to look disapproving. She failed spectacularly.

She stopped, just before reaching the door. She turned back to him, face lined with endearing hopefulness. “Eist?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He took a moment to simply watch her, the genuine soft joy of her smile. She kept her eyes locked on him as she swallowed and blinked, “I…don’t know why I keep being surprised by your kindness and understanding, but…I appreciate it, all the same.”

Her hand was on the necklace again, and he realized that she probably didn’t even know she was touching it again, like a talisman.

“What can I say?” He shrugged. “You bring it out in me.”

She flushed and beamed like a girl being told she is pretty for the very first time.

“Come kiss me, one more time,” she commanded quietly. He gladly did, feeling a ripple of warm delight for the way her hands slipped into his hair, gently tugging with gratefulness and desire. She broke the kiss again but kept their mouths close as she decreed, “You’re going to have to physically walk away right now, Mr. Tuirseach. I’m not sure I can let you go myself.”

The heated certainty in her tone made his heart flutter. He placed his hands on her hips, gently turning her around, back towards the doors to her bedroom. He kissed the top of her silk-clad shoulder and promised, “Later, love.”

She gave a little growl of discontent at that. He chuckled softly, grabbing her ass one last time and giving a quick bite to the side of her neck. He was out of the way before she could retaliate.

Still, he spared one last look as he reached the door to the hallway. She’d turned around again, watching him with such burning desire that his brain short-circuited for a beat.

That woman. She’d be the death of him. But oh, what a way to go.

His throat tightened as he quietly added, “One last thing.”

She perked up at that, face quirking into an adorably curious expression.

“You really are the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. And I love you.”

She swallowed thickly, clutching the lapels of her robe tighter with one hand, the other lightly covering her stomach, holding herself back yet again.

“You have to leave right now,” she informed him, utterly serious. “Because if I get to you before you reach that door, you won’t leave this room for quite a while, and I’ll never forgive you for making me late to my only daughter’s wedding.”

He laughed, offering a quick wink as he left. She loved him, too, he knew—she just had a more interesting way of saying it.

* * *

Calanthe returned to her preparations, her mind still turning over the implications of Eist’s response. At this point, she wasn’t sure what she wanted, mainly because she was still so fearful of hoping for something that couldn’t happen.

Hille offered a small, warm smile through the mirror’s reflection as she stepped behind Calanthe’s seated form, delicately beginning to remove the curlers and style her hair.

Visindra slid into the empty seat next to Calanthe’s vanity, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Calanthe, heaven help her, couldn’t even find the good grace not to grin right back. Visindra merely reached over, giving Calanthe’s knee a light squeeze of affectionate approval.

Which reminded her—they needed to know. Clearing her throat slightly, Calanthe informed them, “Eist…knows. About Pavetta. And Geralt.”

Hille’s entire body stilled and she looked up, eyes wide. Visindra’s smile faded into utter surprise.

“He’s safe,” Calanthe assured them, taking a beat to make eye contact with each woman. “I trust him implicitly.”

They seemed even more shocked at that revelation. Not that Calanthe could blame them, she supposed.

“Alright, then,” Hille said simply, giving a small nod. She went back to work, removing the rest of the curlers.

“So…will we be seeing more of Mr. Tuirseach?” Visindra asked quietly.

“Yes.” Calanthe knew that much was true. The details of _exactly how_ were still in the air—but she trusted him on that front, too.

She replayed his final words in her mind: _You really are the bravest thing I’ve ever seen_.

Yes, he saw her—saw her flaws and still loved her, saw her past and saw something to admire, not pity. She hadn’t really expected that. Her ladies had always been understanding and supportive, but then again, they were her family. They’d known her for years by then; they’d also known Roegner and the cutting cruelty he was capable of. But Eist had known her for two weeks (only two weeks, her mind marveled, how was all this possible, in such a short time?), and he still offered the same level of whole-hearted acceptance. Because he trusted her in turn.

He trusted her to be a good person—to be all the things he saw in her, all the things he’d told her last night. He’d continued pouring that sense of faith and adoration into her, throughout the entire night. And this morning, when she’d pulled back the final veil of secrecy, he’d simply held her, held on instead of pushing away.

More than anything, his faith made her want to meet it—made her want to be the best version of herself, to be the person he saw and admired, to constantly prove herself worthy.

A jolt of revelation settled through her shoulders. Quietly, she glanced over at Visindra through the mirror.

“Find Geralt Rivia. I need to speak with him.”

* * *

Finding Fringilla Vigo was rather easy, as she had spent the night at the palace, in preparation for today’s events.

Alcise felt a pang at Pavetta’s confused expression, when she entered and asked Fringilla to join her for a quick chat.

Fringilla looked equally confused, and Alcise hoped that they were all wrong (though she doubted it). Rather than go downstairs to Alcise’s office, they simply went into the queen’s drawing room, where Renfri already waited.

The young woman took a seat opposite Alcise and Renfri, clasping her hands nervously in her lap. She might not know exactly what was happening, but she was becoming aware, Alcise could tell.

As usual, Renfri preferred the direct approach. “How do you know Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach?”

Inwardly, Alcise was mildly impressed that the young woman could utter the whole name without an ounce of hesitation or misstep.

Fringilla blinked quickly at that, trying to catch up, “You mean Brother Cahir?”

Renfri gave a single, small nod.

“He’s…my confessor,” Fringilla admitted slowly, still trying to figure out why that mattered.

“What, exactly, do you confess to him?” Alcise asked quietly, one brow delicately arching.

Now Fringilla felt a wash of discomfort. “I believe that’s between me and him. As are all confessions between priests and their congregants.”

“Generally, yes,” Alcise agreed. Coolly, she added, “But when those confessions might include collusion to commit treason, the rules get a bit…flexible.”

Fringilla’s eyes went wide with shock. “Wha— _treason?_ ”

Renfri sat up a bit, flatly informing her, “Last night, Brother Cahir attempted to assassinate the Queen. He was also directly involved in the attempted assassination earlier in the week—which has us questioning exactly how he knew so many intimate details.”

“Which led us to you,” Alcise added.

Fringilla swallowed thickly. “I would never—I mean, yes, perhaps some details were mentioned during my confessions, but I could never—”

“I thought Duny was your friend,” Alcise admitted, with a soft frown.

“He is,” Fringilla insisted. “You can’t possibly think I would ever—”

“Cahir knew Duny was going to be at the children’s hospital, originally,” Alcise pointed out. “In fact, Duny was the target.”

Fringilla’s expression went absolutely slack. She’d mentioned as much in one of her confessions, Alcise knew beyond all doubt.

“No,” she said simply.

She was so young, Alcise realized with a sudden pang. The same age as Pavetta, an adult but still so naïve to how the world could work, sometimes.

“No,” Fringilla repeated, shaking her head softly. “I did—of course I mentioned some aspects of my life in my confessions, but I never—if I had thought, even for a second, that Brother Cahir would…that he could possibly do something to hurt Duny, I would never—”

“Duny,” Renfri noted. “But not the Queen as well? Or Pavetta, for that matter?”

Fringilla’s face flushed. She looked over at Alcise, and with another jolt of chagrin, she knew the older woman read her plainly enough.

The whole reason she’d dragged Pavetta along that fateful night was so that she could hang out with Duny. They’d started an interesting flirtation at uni, and she’d been eager to push it outside the confines of the classroom. But Duny had taken one look at Pavetta, and it had been all over.

So yes, she’d been jealous and sniping, in some of her confessions. Yes, she’d banged on about how unsuited they were for each other—and yes, some days she’d even talked about the queen and how controlling she was, how she kept Pavetta from getting to have any fun (that was the hardest part—she still loved Pavetta, still valued her friendship, even as she ached, watching her childhood best friend enjoy a romance with her former crush).

With a sudden flash of realization, she noted that in some of those confessions, she’d been…led into discussing Pavetta, even when she wasn’t originally part of the reason Fringilla had come to make a confession. Brother Cahir had…asked certain questions, in certain ways, cautious and curious and always lined with a sense of concern.

Until now, she’d thought it was concern for herself, for ensuring that she was truly moving beyond the slights and injuries of the past.

But no. Of course, it was always about Pavetta.

She hung her head, the tears quickly blurring her vision.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

Alcise’s hand reached out, gently squeezing her own.

“I believe you,” the older woman quietly spoke. Then, after a slight pause, she added, “But we need to know everything you know about Cahir, and everything you told him.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. As if the day wasn’t already painful enough.

* * *

Geralt hadn’t truly expected to ever return to the Queen’s Palace, but he’d long since given up being surprised at the weird twists of life.

He’d never really planned to return to Cintra at all, truth be told. By now, he’d been back several times, during Jaskier’s continental tours. And when Jaskier informed him of the offer from the Queen of Cintra herself, asking him to come play at her daughter’s wedding feast—Geralt had nearly fallen over in shock.

Of course, Calanthe hadn’t known that Geralt was working with Jaskier (had she?). He imagined she’d spent the last seventeen years trying to forget about him altogether. Last night, he’d done his best to stay out of the way, out of sight, but he hadn’t entirely been able to help himself.

He’d been curious, naturally. He’d followed the news surrounding Pavetta’s engagement and investiture, and seen just how much resemblance she bore to him (but she was never his daughter, he’d decided long ago—she was entirely Calanthe’s, always had been), and he’d wondered what her personality was like now, who she was as a person. He’d left the queen’s employ when she was so young, he wondered if she would even remember him, if she was still anything like the sweet, happy little girl who would run in her mother’s office and climb into Calanthe’s lap.

He’d stayed backstage, but had found a way to watch the dance floor, where Pavetta danced and laughed and sang along to almost every song. She was still joyful, a little ray of light. And when she smiled, she looked just like her mother did, all those years ago.

He’d only seen Calanthe briefly. She didn’t seem the type to smile anymore. Not for the first time, he felt a pang of regret for the part he played in turning her life into such a mess.

He never should have said yes, that night in Temeria. Never should have agreed to go for a quiet walk in the freezing gardens, after dinner. Never should have leaned further in, when Calanthe grabbed the lapels of his coat and drew him close, eyes as wide and dark as the night sky.

But she’d been so…hopeful, and he couldn’t bring himself not to follow along, not to do whatever was necessary to make her smile. Even then, he’d realized how little she smiled in those days.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know about her problems with Roegner. And it wasn’t as if he were secretly in love with her—he respected her, admired the hell out of her determination and tenacity, and often thought, in another world, without the oddness of their roles and ranks, they might be good friends. And, yes, she was an attractive woman, but he’d long been able to turn off that part of himself, in the interest of doing his job.

Then she’d kissed him, and he’d been reminded of all the things he’d intentionally made himself blind to. There had been an almost-clinical sense of curiosity about the whole thing that had actually been…reassuring. She wouldn’t end up pining over him or becoming jealous or possessive, he knew from the start.

_Just once_ , she promised. _Then we never speak of it again. Nothing changes._

She’d hold to her word, he knew. And she did, most admirably.

He thought it had been a good thing, at first. Once they returned from Temeria, things seemed to truly thaw between her and Roegner, and soon she was pregnant.

It was hard to think about those days, now. To think of the times he walked into her office, to see her lightly rubbing her stomach in a comforting motion as she read over a report or a proposed bill. To remember Visindra’s jokes about how her belly showed up five minutes before she did, towards the end when she looked positively uncomfortable and complained about the incessant summer heat. To remember the anxiety radiating from her frame, when he lightly took her elbow and guided her into the car, headed to the hospital to give birth, the sounds of her yelling threats at the doctor as she pushed and panted while he stood guard outside the double doors of her birthing suite, trying not to worry too much. To recall the feeling of relief, when the yelling was replaced by the cry of a babe, and the soft, shuddering sobs of a mother, seeing her child for the very first time.

Even then, when Roegner hadn’t known, he still hadn’t been present. He’d seen Calanthe off to the hospital, but never even considered joining her. Geralt had been both irritated at his lack of involvement, and relieved, knowing his presence would only make things more tense.

Now, looking back, Geralt was even more grateful. In some ways, he’d been there, in the way he should have been, as a father.

That was why he’d left. He’d adored the princess, most of her life (her first few months of life, he had a rather passive view of her, but once she began truly showing her personality, it was hard not to fall a little bit in love). By the time he learned the truth, he’d already developed an easy rapport with the almost-five-year-old Pavetta.

He’d pitied her, a bit, back then. Roegner had already been a distant father, more focused on trying to father more children than simply raise the one he had. Another reason Geralt hated him—he knew how the man spoke, when Calanthe wasn’t around, knew how Roegner considered it a personal challenge to break the House of Raven’s curse of one child per generation (Calanthe would absolutely murder the man if she knew of all the times he’d left dinner with the declaration that he was off to “put a baby in that belly”— _that belly_ , as if Calanthe were nothing more to him than an incubator, the thought still sent a spike of distaste through his blood). Geralt doubted Roegner’s attentiveness towards the princess increased, once he realized that she wasn’t his child.

And once Geralt had learned the truth, the affection and pity surged into something almost primal. He needed to protect her, to shelter her and give her everything she’d been lacking in a father figure, all those years.

Of course, that would only set tongues to wagging. The queen’s personal guard, suddenly so close with her daughter, who suddenly bore a striking resemblance to said guard? It wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots, and the palace was its own rumor mill.

He had to remove himself, so dots couldn’t be connected. To save Pavetta, and Calanthe.

He wasn’t sure that Calanthe had ever understood.

He’d find out soon enough, he realized, following Visindra Tirre into the queen’s private receiving room.

Visindra left him there, continuing through to the queen’s bedchamber, then reappearing a few seconds later with a perfunctory smile before disappearing into the corridor again.

The door to the corridor closed. The one to the bedchamber opened. Calanthe stepped out, even more of a queen than she had been when he’d known her last.

She was dressed in an ornate gown, hair styled around a small sunburst crown, her makeup darkly dramatic and her face lined with fear. Her hand went to a sapphire necklace, lined in silver which clashed with the gold of her dress and crown.

“You’re…here.” She announced quietly, as if stunned by his appearance.

“I didn’t think it was the kind of call I could refuse,” he admitted, holding out his hands in a slight gesture, indicating her rank.

She blinked at that. “No, I suppose not. Still…I would have understood, if you had.”

He took a beat to simply watch her. She was nervous, almost uncertain. He’d let her lead, let her take the time she needed to say whatever she wanted to say.

She swallowed, licked her lips, pressed both hands into her stomach as she glanced away. “I…I don’t know how to start.”

He simply waited.

“You saw Pavetta, last night?” She queried, looking at him again, one brow quirking upwards.

He nodded. “She’s…lovely.”

“Isn’t she?” Now Calanthe smiled, for the first time. Still a bit nervous and breathless, but still an improvement. She took a slight step forward, then nearly pulled herself right back. She looked away again, pressed her lips into a thin line, which seemed to only make her eyes seem wider, larger in fear.

Finally, she looked back to him, “Thank you. For…leaving when you did. I wasn’t happy when you first left, and it was quite awhile before I truly understood—but as…as time went on, I did come to understand that you made the right choice, even if…it was painful.”

Her brows quirked together. Yes, she remembered the times he let Pavetta try to climb up his leg or swing from his arm—she understood the connection that had already existed between them, and how it must have felt, leaving without explanation.

Again, he merely nodded. “I’m…glad you understand, now. I’m just…sorry it ever had to come to that. That things turned out the way they did.”

“I’m not,” she retorted, a bit quickly. “Because of all that, I have Pavetta. I don’t regret a single thing that brought her into my life. And…I want you to know that. I don’t hate you or hold you responsible for anything more than…helping me have such a source of joy.”

He felt a wash of surprise. He hadn’t truly considered it (in fact, he’d actively tried _not_ to think about Calanthe or Pavetta for nearly two decades now), but now he realized that underneath it all, he’d always assumed that she’d hated him for the role he’d played in this whole situation. And now he realized that had been part of the sting, too—they’d been on such close, good terms once, the idea of being met with her hatred and ire had been painful to consider.

“I can’t forgive you—because I’ve never blamed you for anything in the first place,” she admitted softly. “I mean, I did blame you for breaking your promise to act as if nothing ever changed between us, but…that wasn’t fair, on my part. Things did change, even if I didn’t want to acknowledge that.”

This was easier than she’d expected. She’d feared a long, drawn out, awkward conversation. But she was learning—just like her apology to Eist the night before, it was so much easier if she just got everything out, as quickly as possible. And Geralt…seemed understanding, if a bit surprised.

“Still,” he said quietly, face etching with a wash of pained concern. “I do regret if…my actions in any way made your life more difficult.”

She hummed softly at that. Then, with a wry grin, she confessed, “Well, you’ve been gone for ages and I have consistently proven since then that I am quite adept at making my life more difficult entirely on my own.”

He gave a huff of amusement at that. They took a beat to simply study each other.

“Would you—you can come, if you like,” she offered. Noting his confusion, she clarified, “To the wedding. I don’t know—perhaps that’s too much, but I—”

“I would like that, very much,” he interrupted gently. She nodded quickly, glancing away again.

“Obviously, no one can ever know—”

“Of course. I’ll keep my distance, just like last night.”

She gave a small nod again, pressing her lips together. Then, she added, “Thank you for that, too, by the way.”

“Of course,” he said softly. After a beat, he added, “We both want the same thing, Calanthe. For Pavetta to be happy and protected from our…own choices.”

He didn’t say _mistakes_ , and Calanthe appreciated that.

“She seems like a truly lovely girl,” he said. “A daughter you can be proud of.”

“She is. I am.” Calanthe’s voice was thick with tears. Her hand was playing with her necklace, running over the line of sapphires again and again. “And I am…trying to be the kind of person that she can be proud of, in turn.”

Now she looked at him, the corners of her expressive doe eyes tightening in pain. “She would be proud of you, too, you know.”

He felt a need to retort (proud of a man who broke his oath and fucked his charge, a married woman and a queen beyond his rank besides, a man who bolted at the first whiff of responsibility, because he couldn’t control his own emotions?), but the look on her face stopped him. She was offering a gift, of sorts. He wouldn’t slap it out of her hands, wouldn’t dare be an ounce like her thankfully-dead husband.

“Thank you,” he said simply. She nodded, taking a beat to consider before heading towards the door.

“I’ll have Visindra arrange your clearance for the wedding, and all the details. You should have plenty of time to find a decent suit.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at his current ensemble, which was certainly not suited for a royal wedding. He tried not to laugh at the familiar expression, almost feline in its disdain and arched amusement.

Still, she saw his smile and gave a small one of her own.

Yes, he thought again. In another life, they could have been friends.

But in this life, in their circumstances, this was enough.

* * *

Calanthe felt an odd wave of almost-mournfulness, when it was time to take off the sapphire necklace and put on the starburst collar that matched her crown for the wedding. It had been her assurance, through her entire discussion with Geralt—her reminder of Eist’s faith in her, in her ability to be her best self, in her strength and determination. She’d been able to press forward, through the painful and uncomfortable parts, simply because she wanted to be the person he saw, because she wanted to be able to tell him what she’d done and hear his soft words of encouragement and praise.

_Forty-five years old, and you’ve just discovered you have a praise kink,_ she thought amusedly. Granted, Eist Tuirseach had opened up an entire new world for her, in the bedroom. Sex that could be hot and soft, loving and lustful, tender and ferocious—it shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t make sense, and yet, here it was.

_He_ shouldn’t make sense, she thought. _They_ shouldn’t make sense—they never should have gotten this far to begin with. And yet…now, she genuinely couldn’t imagine it any other way (didn’t want to, truth be told).

It’s only been two weeks, her mind gently reminded her. That should give her pause, make her fearful at what could still be hidden between them. Instead, it thrilled her.

With absolute clarity, she realized that she wanted to spend the rest of her life, leaning further in to whatever existed between them.

She felt another flutter of happiness at the certainty that Eist wanted the same. She’d gladly acquiesce to whatever terms he set—if he remained her secret lover for the rest of their lives, so be it. If he still ran off to cover stories around the world, she’d anxiously await his return, and never begrudge him the need to be true to that part of himself (how could she, when it was part of him, part of something she loved so very deeply?). If he only came around every few months, she’d try to learn patience, and find ways to connect with him every day, despite the physical distance.

She’d make it work. And it would work, she knew. With a soft smile, she realized that it, like every other aspect of this entire journey, was utterly inevitable.

They’d been on a collision course for decades, never even knowing it. If he hadn’t left the monarchy, he wouldn’t have become a journalist. If she hadn’t had Pavetta, Tissaia de Vries never would have been able to extract the promise of a future story. Then Eist would have never been assigned to that story, and they never would have met.

But they had, and they were here. Exactly as they were meant to be.

Meant to be. She couldn’t help but grin at the thought. And soon, they’d figure out exactly how to be—and then the rest of their lives could begin.

* * *

**The Temple of Modron, Cintra.**

Eist and Mousesack were, once again, installed in the gallery above the main hall of the temple. It took Eist a few minutes to realize why the man sitting a few seats over looked so familiar—it was Geralt Rivia, the man who was Pavetta’s actual father (because yes, after Calanthe had told her story, Eist had looked the man up, just out of curiosity).

He felt a wash of surprise. There was no way that anyone got into this wedding without express royal invitation—which meant Calanthe knew he was here (which meant she’d reached out and invited him).

It was right, he thought. That the man should be here, to see his daughter’s wedding—even if he hadn’t been particularly involved in her life over the years (which Eist had understood as well, after Calanthe’s own explanation).

Again, he was met with another story he could never tell, another side to this queen, this woman the world would absolutely adore, if they could truly see her. But now, he didn’t regret not being able to share this with the rest of the world. Now, he rather liked knowing that he was part of a privileged few.

He also rather liked the perks of his particular brand of privileged knowledge. The queen arrived, slowly walking down the aisle to take her seat at the front of the temple—she was a vision in her dress, and he hoped he’d have the distinct delight of taking her out of it, later on. Even at a distance, he could easily make out her demure smile and her shimmering eyes (sweet, soft thing, she was emotional already—he couldn’t wait to make her joyful again).

She didn’t glance his way until she was at her own seat, but the directness of her gaze implied that she’d already known exactly where he was seated. He felt a flutter of heated delight in his veins. She ducked her head, smoothing her hands down her hips to fully tuck her long skirt under her as she sat.

To anyone else, it was a mere glance, unpracticed and accidental. Eist wondered at her skill—at the same time, he felt a small bubble of joy, knowing it was entirely intentional, a moment of her taking the time to reconnect with him, even in the smallest of ways.

Calanthe had built a rather private life for herself, despite being a royal. Eist could easily fold into it, he realized, without the world really knowing.

He wouldn’t mind being the queen’s secret lover, he thought. But still, there were the intricacies of his own life to consider—would he simply visit between assignments? Would he be able to go weeks, possibly months, without seeing her, if their lives and schedules demanded it? What other option did he have?

He knew, but he couldn’t quite give voice to it.

One step at a time, he reminded himself. That had rather been how he lived his life—focusing only on the present, on the single moment in front of him.

Duny made his way to the front of the long hall, to stand before the high priest. Then came the attendants, followed by an adorable set of flower girl and ring bearer—Hille’s grandchildren, who earned plenty of soft ahhs at their adorableness.

Then, the music shifted, and the sense of expectancy rippled through the entire temple as everyone rose to their feet.

Eist glanced back at Calanthe, who ducked her head and clasped her hands together, marshalling her emotions in place before turning to see her daughter. Even then, the soft joy on her face was unmistakable.

His entire chest surged with an almost-aching need to be beside her, to lightly place his hand on the small of her back, to hold her hand, to offer any kind of reassurance and comfort he could, to share in her joy in some small way.

He thought of the first secret set of photos Mousesack had given him. The photo of Calanthe at the hospital, talking to the little boy. Knowing that he was just outside the frame, present but never accounted for.

Could he truly live his life like that? Forever having to wait until they were in the shadows, out of eyesight, before he could hold her, comfort her, love her? Forever hiding and never able to always be with her, when she needed him?

His arms recalled the weight of her, crying softly as they held her earlier in the morning. The feeling of calm slipping through her body, held so close against his. The little light sigh she gave, when she’d finally finished crying.

A secret, at-times-physically-distant lover could not always offer such things.

He realized that he couldn’t live with the idea of not always being here, emotionally and physically. Nor could he live with the idea of being forever outside the frame.

He wanted to stand next to her through all the pomp and circumstance, just as deeply as he wanted to hold her in the quiet privacy of her chambers. He wanted to be able to simply look at her, to smile at her without needing to filter it through something more discrete and unapproachable.

_Everything_ , she’d promised. _Anything you want, anything you need._

He finally knew exactly what that looked like. And he finally gave voice to it, with quiet certainty.

He watched her take her seat again, blinking back tears of joy and love as Duny gently took Pavetta’s hand at the altar.

_The last time_ , he promised. _This is the last time I will let you stand alone, the last time I’ll stand outside the frame._

He should be terrified at the idea, at the realization that he was rushing headlong back into a life that he’d forsaken ages ago—all for a woman he’d known for barely two weeks.

Still. _When you know, you know_ , his sister’s voice reminded him.

He knew. Beyond all doubt, he knew.

* * *

**The High Hall at the Temple of Modron, Cintra.**

Despite Eist’s dour predictions half a year ago, there was beer at the wedding reception, Mousesack noted delightedly. All ales and lagers specifically from Hille’s breweries, and he had to track the woman down and compliment her on the quality.

Mousesack felt a flutter of surprise—it was so easy for him now, to weave his way through a throng of noble guests, to smile and compliment a countess who was lady-in-waiting to the queen herself. Even his necktie didn’t feel as chokingly tight as it usually did.

Still, he’d be glad when it was all over.

He caught Princess Pavetta’s eye. She smiled sweetly and he merely raised his glass in silent toast.

Mostly glad. Slightly sad, too, he decided.

Perhaps more than slightly, he amended, his gaze shifting to Pavetta’s mother, whose dark eyes were directed across the room, to where Eist Tuirseach stood in conversation with some other noble, still glancing at the queen quite frequently.

_Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar._

The end might not be here yet, but Mousesack could sense its beginning. Whatever had happened here, Eist’s life was forever changed by it.

He grabbed another beer and headed back to his friend.

He offered the glass to Eist, holding his own up for a quick clink. Seriously, he intoned the familiar toast.

Eist could see the look in Mousesack’s eye. He knew. Of course he knew—those sharp eyes of his had seen it coming, from a mile away.

“To great endings,” Mousesack added quietly.

Eist took a sip, then declared, “And great beginnings.”

His old friend merely smiled.

* * *

Today’s music was a traditional strings ensemble, playing beautifully under the current of chatter and clinking glasses. Duny gently took Pavetta’s hand again and led her out to the section opened for dancing, and they began to waltz. Calanthe felt a wave of soft delight at the sight—yes, her daughter had found true love on her first try, and she was so grateful for all the heartache it would spare her. The princess was a vision, blushing and beaming and all the things a queen should be, in the eyes of her people.

Calanthe could finally breathe easily. _Almost_.

* * *

Eist glanced over and realized, with a flash of dismay, that Calanthe had disappeared from the high table. He scanned the room, looking for the tines of her sunburst crown above the crowd.

“Don’t turn around.”

He stilled at the sound of her voice, barely a whisper. He realized she was just on the other side of the pillar he was standing beside, just out of eyesight, just out of the frame.

“If you walk out the glass doors behind you, take a right and head down the steps—there’s a terrace, just below. Wait a few minutes, and meet me there.”

He nodded, then realized she might not be able to see it. “As you wish.”

Somehow, he heard the light click of her heel, as she moved away.

* * *

Calanthe gripped the stone railing for dear life, steeling herself as she waited.

She should have waited—waited until they were back at the palace, waited until it was safer, waited just a little while longer—but she couldn’t help herself. He looked so delicious and dashing—and far too far away, all the way across the high hall. He smiled and laughed with his conversational partners, told a few stories, if the expression and wide movements of his hands were anything to go by (his hands, she’d realized, just watching them move was enough to spark the most lewd physical reactions from her, because oh, did she know the things they could do, the way they could feel on her body, the way they could make her body feel in turn). He’d sipped his champagne and smiled softly at Pavetta dancing. He’d been too much, too far from her.

So here she was, unable to curb the impulse.

She was going to have to get better at that, she realized. The thought sent a ripple of delight through her chest—because he was going to be around a lot longer, and she’d have more impulses, more situations to see him and feel this ridiculous rush of affection and desire.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t register the sounds of an approach—she felt a ripple of movement over her shoulder and instinctively shifted towards it. The hint of cologne hit her nostrils and her lungs tightened in response.

_Eist_.

He was leaning in to whisper, still keeping a respectful stance as he quietly asked, “Would you like to dance?”

Even out on the terrace, the notes of the music still carried quite easily, filtering through the early evening air.

“I’m not one for dancing,” she informed him, trying to rein in her breathing. It was ridiculous, how quickly her body reacted, just being so near him again, feeling the warmth of his breath on her neck, hearing the low timber of his voice in her ear.

He made a small sound of confused dismay. “I can’t imagine why not. I happen to know you’re excellent at keeping rhythm.”

His hands finally came to her hips, and she had to close her eyes at the simple contact. She hummed in amusement at his quip, shaking her head slightly. “That’s a bit different, I think.”

“Perhaps,” he acquiesced easily, slipping his left arm further around her stomach as his right hand lightly took hers. He kept his lips close to her ear as he added, “And perhaps it’s not quite as different as you think.”

He took a small step back, and she followed, closing her eyes again and simply letting him sway her to the music. He was solid and warm behind her, it was easy to follow the shifts of his body as he slowly moved them along.

_Please never leave me, you ridiculous man_ , her heart breathed.

He shifted, pulling her right hand up further so that he could place a kiss on her knuckles. She prided her knees’ ability not to completely buckle then and there.

“If you didn’t ask me here to dance, I’m assuming you want to discuss the next step.” His voice was still so quiet, his lips moving closer to her ear again.

It was completely unnecessary, they were completely alone—but he knew exactly what he was doing, she realized. She didn’t even possess the good grace to feign upset at his obvious manipulation of her body’s response. Instead, she merely let her left hand slide over his, still holding her waist.

“Excellent assumption,” she informed him. She suddenly understood her own sense of urgency—she needed this discussion over with, needed to know the rules and parameters so that she could immediately start filling them to the fullest with all the things he made her feel, all the things she wanted him to feel in turn.

He lightly pulled away, turning her so that she faced him before bringing her closer again. It felt…right, the way they fit together again, the way her body seemed to naturally follow the movements of his as he continued dancing.

_Please never leave me_ , she prayed again, summoning all her courage to look up into those sparkling blue eyes as she waited for him to speak again.

He couldn’t help but smile. Her eyes were so wide, eyebrows lilting in anxious hopefulness. She desperately didn’t want to force him into a decision, but her tender desperation only solidified the one he’d made.

Still, he found himself quietly saying, “Let’s make a decision with full forethought. If I want us to continue, if I decided to be the queen’s secret lover, what changes?”

She considered the question. Then quietly answered, “Only what we want to change. You could…still have your time away, covering whatever stories you need to—I don’t want you to feel…kept, or trapped.”

He could kiss her, right now, for all her soft concernities, her sweet desire to let him be as free and happy as he needed.

“And you could…come back to Cintra, whenever you wanted.” She swallowed and looked into his eyes again. “Come back to me, whenever you wanted. No…rules or set schedules. Just…whenever you wanted.”

Eist had long since learned that sometimes, it was what Calanthe didn’t say that meant the most— _whenever you wanted, because I’ll always be here, I’ll always be waiting for you, always be loving you, and whenever you want to be loved, I’ll be here._

“We could find a way around the rumors and the prying eyes,” she promised, almost desperate to convince him that it could work ( _it had to work, it absolutely had to_ ). “You could still have your old life, just…with a little extra.”

He smiled at that. Her heart clenched, feeling a mixture of hopefulness and despair (hopefulness that he would accept, that she’d still have him, in some way, and despair at the thought that this is all he wanted, all he needed from her, that she’d misjudged, that they weren’t as perfectly matched as she’d thought).

He stopped dancing. He took a beat to simply look into her eyes, one hand coming to lightly curl underneath her chin.

In a voice thick with emotion, he asked, “And if I wanted to stay? Always?”

Her vision immediately blurred with tears.

He tilted his head a bit closer, gently brushing his nose against hers. “If I wanted to be more than just a secret, more than just a sometimes-lover—if I wanted to be able to dance with you, with a room full of people watching, what changes?”

“Everything,” she breathed, pushing further into a kiss.

Eist wrapped her in his arms as tightly as he could, almost lifting her off her toes. His tongue slid past her teeth and she gave a small, shuddering hum of relief.

He was shaking too, she realized after a beat. He’d been just as terrified—she held him, fingertips sinking into his shoulderblades with sudden reassuring ferocity ( _oh, I’ve got you, you’ve got nothing to fear—I want this, exactly this, just as much as you_ ).

The music changed, to something even slower. He grabbed her hips and pulled her forward again, feeling a ripple of heated delight for the way she shifted and swayed beneath his palms (he was right, she had excellent rhythm), the way her arms slid around his neck, holding him close as she continued kissing him with little nips and sighs, pulling her body closer and moving purposefully against him.

They’d never be able to dance like this, in a room full of people, he mused wryly. But then again, he’d rather be completely alone with her right now, anyways.

He broke from the kiss, nuzzling closer to whisper in her ear again, “Let’s leave.”

She hummed, giving a soft gasp at the light tug of his teeth on her ear. “My darling, I know it’s been a while since you’ve found yourself at the center of royal life, but we cannot leave a shindig simply because we’ve grown bored with it.”

“ _Bored_ isn’t the particular emotion I’m feeling—”

“I should hope not.”

He chuckled at the light offense in her tone.

Her hand slipped to his hair, holding him in place as she turned and whispered thickly. “You’d better get used to it, I’m afraid. I plan on torturing you through many an event, for many years to come.”

He hummed at that, merely testing his teeth against her neck. She shivered and sighed, entire body igniting with warmth at the sensation of his lips on her skin.

He pulled away slightly, tone lined with teasing, “Are you sure I can’t get you to change your mind?”

“Stay,” she breathed. “I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

She wasn’t just talking about the reception, he knew. He suddenly grew serious, placing a tiny kiss right on her pulse point, just below her jaw.

“Of that I have no doubt, dear queen.”

She grinned at that, eyes dancing as she stepped back.

_Yes_ , he silently promised, _I’ll stay, and spend every second trying to bring back this exact smile._

She glanced upwards, to the balcony above them, which led back into the high hall.

“Just a moment more,” he said quietly, pulling her closer again. “Just one dance more.”

She sighed, but didn’t argue. Instead, she ducked her head, letting her temple rest on his shoulder. He easily pulled them across the terrace, into some modified waltz with smaller, softer steps to allow them to stay closer together, to move just a little slower.

He shifted, lightly kissing her forehead, just below where her crown rested atop her head.

“For the record, you’re already worth the while,” he informed her, absolutely serious.

She closed her eyes happily. Still, she teased, “I’d prefer for this to stay _off_ the record, Mr. Tuirseach.”

He hummed at that. After a beat, he moved back suddenly, pushing her out into a half-spin that had her making a noise of breathless surprise.

Still, she went along with it easily, grinning at him like the sun, with stars in her eyes. She was heaven and earth, the moon and the sea, the light of his heart and the darkness between the stars of all his waking thoughts.

_Everything_ , she’d promised. And everything she was.


	34. ::Press Releases and Reactions::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...check back on tumblr (@marvellouslymadmim) for upcoming master post/playlist release/etc, if bonus content is your thing.

** Excerpt from The Cintran Correspondent **

_Royal Investigators Uncover Assassination Plot_

Earlier this morning, the Royal Investigations Terrorism Unit announced they had finalized the arrests of a group of Cintran nationals who collectively call themselves The Shepherds. The group claimed to be invested in “protecting the flock from the lions”—a heavy-handed euphemism directed at the Cintran royal family and its administration.

The group first came under scrutiny after the attempted assassination of Her Majesty Queen Calanthe at the Cintran Children’s Hospital just last week—the gunman was a member of the group's online community and had allegedly communicated with other members to learn the queen’s whereabouts and launch his attack. Further investigation unveiled another assassination plot, which has brought the remaining members under charges of high treason against the crown.

The names of the alleged co-conspirators have not been released at this time. Charges are expected to be read at the High Court by next week.

* * *

** From The Winter Edition of _The Continental Post_ **

A Letter from the Editor: _A Bend in the Road._

By: Tissaia de Vries, Editor-in-Chief. Photographs by: Anton J. Moussek.

I first met Eist Tuirseach twelve years ago, in a refugee camp in Mag Turga, right at the base of the Tir Tochair mountains. Of course, we journalists knew him as the royal who’d rejected his former life, a bit of an odd myth—but in the camp, his reputation was far different. He was the one who knew everyone’s name, who sat down in the dirt to play games with the children, the man you approached when you needed medical supplies or strings pulled with various government relief programs. And yet he still kept his writing as unbiased as possible, though its prose would still move the reader to deep emotions and a sense of longing for lands they’d never even seen.

He also was (and still is) a helluva drinking partner and excellent storyteller, one who has had me crying with laughter, on more than one occasion. One of the great readers of human behavior, a man who can be as quietly observant as he is wildly gregarious—and the one you want at your side, in the dark and scary times.

For years now, I have joked that one day I would write his eulogy. I didn’t think I’d be writing words of farewell quite so soon—or with such bittersweet joy—but then again, Eist has always liked to keep me on my toes.

When _The Post_ was granted access and the chance to cover the Cintran Royal Wedding, Eist was the natural choice—as a former royal who had a unparalleled perspective on the proceedings, and as a master storyteller, both of which were needed for such an unprecedented event. None of us could have predicted that, in assigning him to the task, I would somehow return him to the life he’d left, decades before.

I can say with absolute conviction that Eist Tuirseach is a man of upright character, and that he never allowed bias to influence the story he told for us, in the summer edition of the magazine. His personal relationship with Queen Calanthe did not develop until long after the story had been completed and edited, and I trust wholeheartedly that anyone who read the piece could find no grounds for accusations of favoritism or bias in the least. In fact, in the five months since the article’s release, not a single soul approached us with any form of concern regarding such. Again, this is down to Eist’s skill as a storyteller and his absolute dedication to writing the truth.

When Eist informed me of his growing relationship with the Queen of Cintra, I was naturally shocked. But upon seeing the quiet joy and peacefulness surrounding his decision, I could do nothing but accept it, as a friend, as a colleague, as an observer who’s long learned to never truly be surprised by the intricate complexities of human existence and all the beautifully unexpected twists and turns the road of life can take.

Eist Tuirseach’s path is diverging from the one that led him here, to being one of the foremost writers, both at our publication and in the world. But that’s the interesting thing about paths—they lead on, forever moving forward and always leading to the next step, which might have seemed impossible a dozen steps previously. And regardless of where it leads, I know that along the way, he will forever be the man I met in the foothills, all those years ago. Kind, compassionate, larger than life, and ready to help to the best of his abilities.

My toes will miss you, dear sir. And I may write your eulogy yet—but not as an editor writing about her journalist, but rather as a journalist writing about a beloved king.

Just make sure it’s a long while until I do.

* * *

** Excerpt from The Verden Daily Press **

_Shock and Aww: A Whirlwind Romance and Secret Wedding Shifts Public Perception of Cintra’s Infamously Cold Calanthe._

The ice queen seems to have melted, a bit. Yesterday, the Cintran Royal Press Office released a statement that shocked the nation: Her Majesty Queen Calanthe of Cintra has remarried, in a private ceremony earlier this month.

This morning, the press office released a statement from her husband, His Royal Highness Eist of Skellig:

_"[...] We chose not to pursue traditional lines of marriage—the seeking of blessings from the Queen’s Council or the reading of banns, or any public ceremony—because our union holds no political significance, nor should it. It is a decision and a commitment between two hearts who belong unequivocally to each other. With Her Royal Highness Princess Pavetta fully invested as the Crown Heir, the country’s future is undoubtedly secure and therefore, any such action of Her Majesty the Queen holds no bearing upon the political fate of her nation. We made this choice not out of a desire to deceive the good people of this great nation, but out of a genuine wish to have a moment of private choice in a lifetime that has been, and will continue to be, dedicated to self-sacrifice in the interest of greater public good._

_The Queen’s heart is always with her people—and I can assure them all that her depth of devotion and love for her country is unrivaled. I look forward to better serving this land and its people in the coming years, and can only hope that I live up to the shining example my queen has set."_

So far, reactions to the announcement seem to be at least tolerant. Lord Stregobor, Chamberlain and head of the Queen’s Council, when asked to comment, simply offered, “The Queen has long been admired for her conviction and strength of character. It does not surprise us wholly that she chose such a path—nor should we begrudge her a moment of private choice after a lifetime of public servitude.”

The general public’s reaction seems to be a fairly warm reception—from lauding the new Prince Consort’s dashing good looks to swooning over the sweepingly romantic air of a daringly secret wedding.

“I honestly never would have imagined her capable of such a thing,” admitted Sarinthea Birrenes, a Cintran native and local coffee-shop owner. “She’s always been this distant and removed thing, locked away in the palace. But now? I don’t know, I just see her a bit differently. I’ve been a fan of Mr. Tuirseach’s writing for ages, and the way he goes on about her in the royal press release—it made me reconsider, you know? It made me realize that she’s still human.”

With Princess Pavetta already invested as the Crowned Heir, there isn’t any worry over the union—and any children it may produce—affecting the current line of succession, though one doubts that the queen will be trying for any babies, this late in the game. Still, who knows? It seems that nothing can be fully predicted in Cintra.

Currently, a debate is rising as to whether or not Prince Eist will be crowned King of Cintra—the Royal Press Office has not commented on the matter at this time.

* * *

**From _Hot Goss Magazine_ , Winter Issue #50**

_The Press Prince of Cintra: From Prince to Journalist to Prince Consort, Eist Tuirseach’s Extraordinary Journey._

Every girl dreams of a fairy-tale come true—but it seems that in Cintra, the roles often get reversed. Less than a year after Her Royal Highness Pavetta, High Princess of Cintra and Duchess of Sodden, wed commoner Duny Urcheon, Lord of Erlenwald, the pattern repeats. This time Her Majesty Queen Calanthe announced her marriage to Eist Tuirseach, former Prince of Skellige turned journalist and now Prince Consort of Cintra.

According to rumors, Prince Eist first met the queen while covering the royal wedding—though the real sparks didn’t fly until after the assignment. The focus of his article was Princess Pavetta, and he didn’t interact much with the queen during that time.

In an interview with _The Cintran Correspondent_ , Princess Pavetta admitted to being the reason behind the unexpected romance—during her discussions with Mr. Tuirseach, Pavetta decided to honeymoon in the Skelligen archipelago. At the end of the honeymoon, the queen joined them for a weekend on the isles. Eist Tuirseach was invited to dinner one night, as thanks for playing tourguide on a hike earlier that week. The two "really hit it off" at that fateful dinner, according to the princess.

“After that, it seemed inevitable,” Pavetta admitted. 

Private dinner with a queen, aboard a yacht—followed by a wedding, less than six months later? Sounds like a modern fairy-tale, indeed.

* * *

** From _Fashion Forward Magazine_ , Spring Edition **

_Oh, Baby! Princess Pavetta’s Baby Bump Makes Its First Public Appearance._

Crown Princess Pavetta, Duchess of Sodden, looked pretty as a picture in her Giltine dress and pea-coat set, while cutting the ribbon for the latest addition to the Children’s Hospital of Cintra. Just last week, she officially announced her pregnancy in a royal press release, confirming the baby will be due about a month after the first anniversary of the princess’ investiture and wedding—the announcement itself comes just weeks after the shocking surprise marriage of her mother, Queen Calanthe, to Prince Eist Tuirseach. [ _Photo by: Eglin Risse, The Cintran Correspondent_ _]_

* * *

** Excerpt from The Cintran Correspondent **

_Still a Man of Action: Cintra’s Prince Consort Unveils New Foreign Aid Foundation._

During his twenty-year career as a journalist, His Royal Highness Eist Tuirseach gained a reputation for exemplary and unbiased reporting, often from some of the most impoverish regions of the continent—but he was also known for rolling up his sleeves and doing what he could to help the lives of the people whose stories he shared.

It seems that returning to royal life has not diminished the drive to help. Just last week, the prince announced the crown’s new foundation for providing educational materials and training for teachers in the foothills of Nazair and Mettina, in addition to a new grant program for foreign aid entities already in existence.

The prince and the queen of Cintra visited refugee camps in Nazair yesterday morning, listening to concerns of camp organizers and coordinating with aid programs already assisting the refugees in various forms.

Her Majesty Queen Calanthe is scheduled to speak before the Queen’s Council later this week, with recommendations towards the use of Cintra’s foreign aid funds, particularly in the realm of education and child development.

* * *

** ROYAL PRESS RELEASE: Announcement Regarding the Birth of Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon **

Her Royal Highness Pavetta Fiona Elen, Ard Rhenawedd, Duchess of Sodden, and Prince Duny Urcheon, Duke of Sodden, Lord Erlenwald, proudly announce the birth of their daughter, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra.

Both princesses are well and in good health. The dedication ceremony will be held in one week, at the Temple of Modron. Tonight the bells of Modron will toll to welcome the new princess.

* * *

** Except from The Sodden Sentinel, online edition **

_Cintra’s New Princess Receives Royal Blessing. (Photo Gallery)_

The Cintran Royal Family were all smiles at the dedication of Princess Cirilla at the Temple of Modron yesterday. Aside from the princess’ parents, Crown Princess Pavetta and Prince Duny, the ceremony included her grandparents, Her Majesty Queen Calanthe and His Royal Highness Prince Eist, as well as Skellige’s Princess Sibba, Jarl of An Skellig and Clan Tuirseach.

Click through to see more photos-->

Watch the video here-->

** Comments from the online version of the article: **

_Merrie_K:_ How does Pavetta already look so thin and amazing again??? What’s her secret??

 _EistingOnTheCake_ : Never gonna be over our hot new prince consort.

 _jonnieJay:_ why are y’all sleeping on Visindra Tirre???? She’s so freaking gorgeous!!

 _Jaskierzbae4lyfe_ : @EistingOnTheCake did you watch the video? He was totally watching his wife’s ass the entire time she was reaching forward to hold the baby XD

 _Trimme_Sings:_ @Jakierzbae4lyfe UM CAN YOU BLAME HIM?? #thatskirt #imsogay

 _Send-Noodles_ : I think it’s adorable, actually. I mean, they haven’t even been married a year, why shouldn’t they still be acting like horny newlyweds? Age is just a number!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, love doves. One chapter left. I don't like leaving notes on the final chapter of a work (idk why), so I'll take this moment to simply say thank you to everyone who followed, favorited/gave kudos, left (oftentimes HILARIOUS) comments, shared on Tumblr, created memes (I can't get over it), or even mentioned the story in their IG stories (gothicburrito, looking at you, babe). The best part of storytelling is getting to experience the story with others, and you've all made it an absolute joy. Love and gratitude from the bottom of my ink-stained heart.


	35. The Found Prince and the Open Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gothic_burrito, here's your marshmallow moment :)

**The Queen’s Palace, Cintra.**

“Would a smile have killed you, my dear?”

His wife’s voice was absolutely dripping with disdained sarcasm, but he knew she was amused, even if she was still slightly irritated.

Eist Tuirseach merely settled back against the pillows, tucking his arm behind his head to watch the queen pace at the end of their bed.

Some things had not changed—Calanthe still awoke before the dawn, still did her yoga and had her coffee and read her bevy of newspapers (headlines only, of course) before the rest of the world even considered waking.

Some things had changed—she didn’t leave her chambers before nine o’clock, unless it was a national emergency. And she often ended up back in bed, once her husband awoke.

Currently, she was, quite sadly, not back in bed. Wrapped in her silk dressing gown, wearing her reading glasses, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other. She was focused on the press coverage of yesterday’s event—the dedication of their week-old granddaughter.

“Seriously,” she squinted, inspecting the front page photo closer. “You look as if you’re awaiting your own execution.”

“You know you never like the photos _The Correspondent_ uses anyways,” he pointed out easily. “Mousesack’s will certainly be better, once he sends them over.”

She hummed at that. Mousesack still worked for _The Post_ , but he often attended Cintran affairs of state—and privately, always sent his best photos over to Calanthe and Eist.

Eist smiled at the thought, instinctively glancing towards the currently-closed doors that led to the queen’s private receiving room. Now the long side tables also held some of the photos Mousesack had taken at the very beginning—the shot of them climbing into their jeeps in the desert, which had no outside context and couldn’t be pinned down to a certain time frame and thus disrupt the false timeline they’d created for the public. Over the past year, there were more photos: the one of them both looking at their hands, being bound together by a ceremonial cord; the one of them walking side-by-side through the refugee camp in Nazair, sharing some inside joke behind their matching aviator shades and wide grins; the one of them both clinking their glasses together, grinning broadly at each other as they toasted Pavetta and Duny’s first anniversary; and the most recent, one of Calanthe holding newborn Ciri, face streaked with tears as Eist leaned over her shoulder, holding her close to smile down at his granddaughter for the very first time.

There were more photos, in the little book Calanthe kept in her bedchamber. Eist had been delighted to learn his wife was a ridiculously sentimental being with an almost-pathological need to document and preserve her personal life’s history.

That photo album had bits the world would never see. The photos of her and him, bundled under a blanket beside a campfire in An Skellig, making s'mores with Sibba and her family—Eist’s favorite was the one with her looking mischievously at him, after Sibba had asked who wanted more marshmallows (the inside joke being that Calanthe often called him one, and was the most vocal in declaring her absolute desire for more). A photo of her, on a hike on the smallest island of the archipelago, breathless and sweaty and smiling at the top of the peak (he’d been a fan of her shorts, or more aptly of her legs in them). Another photo from that same trip, one that no one else could ever see, the queen enjoying one of the many waterfalls on the island with decidedly less clothing and a pose that couldn’t be described as anything but lewd, her burning gaze directed at the camera and the man behind it. Eist had kept that photo with him, during the time they had to be apart, for the sake of public opinion. Then there were the photos of both of them, on their own honeymoon—again, more photos the world could never see. Calanthe had proven to be quite creative, with her shots and angles, and she was rather proud of her burgeoning collection of erotica ( _Eistica_ , he’d dubbed it, much to her never-ending chagrin—which wasn’t entirely correct anyways, since he wasn’t always the only one in the shots).

The thought of those photos—of the memories surrounding their creation—made him return his focus to the woman still pacing the room, draining the last of her coffee before setting the mug on a side table and grabbing another newspaper.

“C’mere,” he called softly. She stopped, eyebrows lifting over the round rims of her reading glasses, which enlarged her big brown eyes to an even more adorable size. He pulled back the covers in invitation, “Come consort with me.”

The corner of her mouth lifted at the joke—the same joke he made nearly every day, without fail. In all honesty, she suspected that was his main reason for refusing to be crowned king—just so he could continue making the quip.

_I like being Prince Consort_ , he’d informed her warmly, the first time they’d discussed it. _I literally have one responsibility, and it's more than enough to occupy all my time and energy._

It was a joke, but only slightly. It also held with the words he’d told the world, when they first announced their wedding (two and half weeks after it actually happened, after they’d enjoyed a long and vigorous honeymoon in absolute anonymity): their marriage was not about politics or power, or anything beyond two souls agreeing to always be together. He didn’t want the title of king because he didn’t need it—he simply needed _her_ , needed to have the right to stand by her side, in the open, in the light of day and his beloved truth.

They’d had to lie about their relationship's beginning, and Calanthe had feared he would balk at the idea. But she couldn’t let their romance taint Pavetta’s story. Thankfully, Eist has shown that while he loved the truth and sought to tell it always, he loved his family more.

And by now, Pavetta was his daughter, more so than she’d ever been Roegner’s. They had inside jokes and they planned charity drives together. They swapped book recommendations—and when Pavetta had told them of her pregnancy, Eist had dove into reading everything he could about pregnancy and birthing. It had been adorable (and had earned him more than a few physical displays of affection from his wife).

There were no lies between them, and that was what mattered. When Calanthe had first told him the story of Pavetta’s paternity, she’d left out Tissaia de Vries’ involvement, or exactly how it had led to him entering her life. It wasn’t her story to tell. But she’d called Miss de Vries and told her that Eist now knew.

Tissaia, to her credit, later told Eist her part of the story. Eist, like Calanthe, had actually looked upon it with gratitude—after all, without it, they never would have met.

Perhaps destiny truly did exist, Calanthe thought wryly, smiling warmly down at the man in her bed ( _their_ bed), with his delicious tattoos and scruffy beard and sleep-tousled hair. Perhaps all things did happen for a reason.

She slowly dropped the newspaper to the floor, letting her hands come up to untie the sash of her robe.

“Keep the glasses,” he commanded softly.

She arched a brow, “Got a thing for grandmas?”

He gave a lazy grin in return ( _you already know the answer to that one_ ). Still, he said, “I just wanna make sure you see every detail.”

She flushed in delight at that, slipping the robe from her shoulders and slowly crawling up the mattress to meet him.

She lifted her knee over his hip, straddling him as she leaned in for a warm, solid kiss.

He hummed as they drew apart. “Can’t you put just the slightest bit of creamer in your coffee?”

“Are you saying my kisses are bitter, my love?”

“Never. But they could be sweeter.”

She huffed softly at the clever re-arrangement of words. She dipped forward, nuzzling into the curve of his neck, relishing the still-sleepy warmth of his skin beneath her tongue. She shifted slightly, whispering raspily in his ear, “Sweet enough for you?”

“Getting there.” His hands were on her hips, trying to guide her further down, closer to him.

She hummed in amusement, ignoring his hands’ silent pleas and refocusing her efforts to kiss down his neck and across his chest, feeling a familiar wash of delight—she could trace over his tattoos blindfolded now, had them entirely committed to memory.

She felt him shift beneath her, then heard the flutter of paper.

She sat up, slightly shocked. “Fucking _how_?”

He grinned triumphantly, holding up a folded letter. “I’ve told you, my dear sweet wife, that’s the one secret you’ll never learn.”

She harrumphed at that, better balancing back on her heels (not fully sitting on him, and certainly not as far back as he would like) as she took the paper from his hands, opening it without preamble.

That was the real reason he’d wanted her to keep her glasses, she knew.

It happened at least once a week now, often more frequently than that—her husband wrote her a love letter, the kind he wished that he’d written in the very beginning of their relationship. Sometimes they were bawdy odes to her physical attributes, sometimes they were whisperingly-sweet declarations of love, sometimes words of reassurance and strength, during particularly tough times with her council or public opinion. The most recent one had been simply a recounting of the joy he’d felt, watching her sing to Ciri one afternoon.

She’d been trying to catch him in the act for months now. It had become a game of sorts. She never caught him writing it, never found a draft before he gave it to her. This week, she’d barely left his side—it was a fairly long letter, and yet somehow, he’d written the whole thing without her seeing it, once.

Eist smiled as he watched her read over the letter with rapt attention, chest rising and falling more rapidly as her emotions rose, along with the delicious flush across her chest and cheeks. He simply let his hands trail up and down the sides of her hips, enjoying the solidness of her body beneath his fingertips.

He’d started writing the letters, the very first time he’d left her, traveling to An Skellig to visit Sibba and her family. He’d seen her less than two weeks later, and given it to her in person—by then, there was a letter for every day they’d been apart. She’d cried, and he’d known it was the good kind of tears again—and just like before, he’d held her and kissed her repeatedly, and when she was recovered, they let actions speak in ways that words could not.

After that, he’d had no doubt that he would marry that woman, as soon as he could.

Today marked the one-year anniversary of the day he’d returned to the Queen’s Palace at Cintra, after the noise and bustle of the royal wedding had truly died down. The day he’d returned for good.

She lowered the letter and simply took a beat to look at him.

“You absolute bastard,” she breathed. “You know damn well I have a council meeting this morning—I can’t possibly do everything I want to, after reading this.”

He grinned unrepentantly. “But you don’t have anything else on your official schedule for the rest of the day.”

“Yes, I do. Visindra scheduled a meeting with the queen’s benevolence fund or something….”

Her husband’s knowing look made her pause. He held out his hand, as if offering to shake.

“Eist Tuirseach, head of the fund,” he announced. “Desperately seeking the queen’s benevolence, truth be told.”

She laughed. Of course, he’d pulled Visindra into the scheme. The two had become fast friends and co-conspirators. In fact, it had been Visindra who officiated their wedding. Though Calanthe didn’t mind—in fact, she rather liked it. She’d become quite close to Eist’s sister, Sibba, and she liked the idea of them weaving so fully into each other’s families.

“Let’s hope you have a compelling case,” she informed him, setting aside the letter and pushing her glasses to the top of her head. This time, she let his hands direct her exactly where they both wanted her to be.

She laughed softly again, in physical relief of having him inside her and continued delight at her husband’s mischievous ways.

“I’ll give my best argument yet,” he promised. She smirked at that, sitting back fully, rolling her hips and closing her eyes at the familiar feeling of being overwhelmed by this man, in all ways.

“Of course you will,” she returned easily, with absolute conviction.

And she truly believed it, every word, with every fiber of her being.

When she’d promised him everything, over a year ago, she hadn’t realized that it meant he’d give her everything in return (why she hadn’t, she still didn’t know—even by then, she’d known how fully matched they were, in that regard). It was a gift that kept on giving, because she poured everything into him, and he poured it right back into her. She’d never been a part of something so constant, so consistent in its desire and devotion, so unwavering in its certitude and determination.

Never before, at least. Because now she was certainly a part of it, alongside a man who never ceased to amaze her with his capacity for love and affection.

She felt her own swell of love and affection and leaned down, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. Her husband took the moment of distraction to roll them, playfully pinning her to the mattress and pulling a light twitter of surprise from her lungs.

But it was the look in his eyes that truly pinned her—the deep, searching intensity of their burning blue, pushing into her soul as easily as he pushed back inside her body, making her lungs seize and her throat tighten with emotion.

It was too much, as always. And as always, she took a breath, opened herself wider, and let him drown her in love. Deep, unhesitant, unrepentant, unblinking, unconditional, ferociously tender and mind-blowingly overwhelming love.

_~Le Fin._


End file.
